The Lost
by Isolde Jansma
Summary: Religious themes, death, torture, an alien culture and war are all here. Be warned, it's not going to be an easy read.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star trek isn't mine and never will be. This story is, though, and all the characters not associated with ST are too.**

**The Lost.**

**By**

**Isolde Jansma.**

Blood red, the foaming water reached to towards the scarlet sun in the magenta sky, sending spume hurtling upwards as it attempted to quench the fire. It fell back into the wind, splattering into a million droplets, and then tried again. Endlessly. Ceaselessly it crashed, a violent churning of the depths, throwing itself vainly against the jagged rocks of the headland.

The watcher, standing on that head of land, turned away into the face of the wind, strong and easterly, gripping the waterproof covering even more tightly as it attempted to rip it from her grasp. She began the slow trudge down the pathway and heard the footsteps of onr of her companions on the shale as he followed. She headed unerringly to the house, built into the face of the great granite cliff left so many million years ago by the now extinct volcano, pausing only to open the door and enter.

The final figure on the knoll stayed, watching the waves thrash themselves, break, retreat, break… The stark smell of iron, copper and salt, the reek of some dead thing close by, filled his nostrils until he could bear the stark reminder no longer and he vomited, spewing the bile his stomachs contained onto the wiry, sparse grass. It lived on in him, the memory of his first kill, the quick and the dead tied up into one huge knot; it choked him. The image burned; it would always be there. Strange the first should haunt him so, and not the many others that had followed? He could see it again, that telecast memory of vivid colour – the head bursting and grey brains floating like some loathsome flower into a slick red-brown cloud… grey rain…

The water of the sea swept on inexorably, bubbling over the pebbles and rocks of the shallow beach, hissing through them, washing them it always had, always would…. oblivious to pain, or sorrow. And the sound of anguish was no more than a whisper in the lament of the wind…

The stench made him gag again, and weep bitter tears for what he, no; _they_ had lost, for what they had _had_ to do. For the loss of all that was precious, to him and to them… their 'humanity', a price that was counted in the numberless dead that lay rotting in myriad cities.

He wept on, insensible in his grief, and fell to his knees, tearing at the sparse covering on the soil, covering his hands in his own puke, digging into the turf with the kind of madness known only to those that sorrow.

Eventually he lifted his head, all the rage in him gone for a time, controlled – replaced by an empty, echoing hollowness where all emotion had disappeared.

_It is better so_, he reflected. The thoughts bore not a trace of his earlier bitterness; he knew he could ill afford any sentiment in this. It was regrettable, but necessary. In an easy movement, he bent his head back into the icy fingers of the rain as it fell on his pale-skinned face to run in rivulets down the broad expanse of his flat nose. It trickled along the planes of cheeks and over his wide mouth; the wetness was a caress on his skin, washing the filth crusting his features away.

Rysab, self-styled Lieutenant of Tlojne, brushed his hands over his face before rising to his feet. He pulled a corner of his coat up and cleared his eyes with it before heading in the direction the others had taken. His feet were as leaden as his soul and he could not help feeling they were wasting their time. Silek had _told_ them the Federation would not intervene even to save the life of an important personage such as himself. He believed the Vulcan; it was reputed they could not lie, and why should he? It would profit neither him nor his family.

The Jesavaen was curious about the Special Envoy; it was something he had had to fight against all his life. An excess of curiosity was never a good thing for an adult Jesavaen to have. It was all right in children… but in an _adult_ it was most improper, and led to thinking outside of the accepted parameters. He could ill afford such luxuries now, and he fought the emotion into a tight knot inside his stomachs, resting it against the despair he held in such vast quantities.

Musing so had made the journey to the house so much the shorter, and he stepped across the threshold to its comparative heat, welcoming the scents of home and the delicious warmth seeping through to his wind-chilled skin. She was waiting for him.

Tlojne turned her breeder's face towards him with its dark eye markings; her nostrils closed as if stung, offended. "You stink", she hissed.

He inclined his head gravely in apology; he had not realised the stench that clung to him. "I will cleanse myself, Madame."

She waved him to silence impatiently, expecting and receiving instant obedience. "That is unimportant, Rysab. The message has been sent to the Starship by Winczk."

He stared like a cretin for a moment, his jaws slightly agape as he took in the scent of her excitement. "They are coming…?" The pungent aroma of his own excitement joined hers and mingled in the small room.

Tlojne chewed rhythmically for a second, gloating inwardly, before allowing him to see the smile on her face. "Yes."

Rysab stared at her for a moment longer, then shook himself out of the fierce surge of pleasure he had on hearing this news, and inclined his head again. "Madame," he breathed, almost sighing. "_Now_ I will prepare myself in celebration." He sculpted a bow to her, and left the room to prepare himself in a manner better fitted to his rank.

Tlojne watched his retreating figure then she, too, stalked away to the place where their captive waited, intent on delivering the news to him, relishing that he would be ill-pleased to receive it. She paused at the edge of the stairs, then stepped down the first as the light flooded the darkness, finally reaching the door at the bottom and opening it into a narrow corridor with the bars of a cage set solidly into the rock. She hesitated, as if in mid-flight, attempting to calm her raging heart, and drew a deep breath against the alien stench as she walked upto the bars, shutting the door quietly as she came but not so quietly that the humanoid in the room had not heard her. Tlojne slitted her nostrils, offended by the alien's rank smell, and regarded him with revulsion.

Silek observed the Jesavaen female from the other side of the small chamber with undisturbed calm, but he rose to his feet. Jet eyes regarded her slow, almost choreographed movements, and the carefully closed nostrils, cataloguing the body language carefully. He knew she hated him, _loathed_ him, and would cheerfully give the order that meant his death if he ceased to be useful. What possible use he was, however, eluded him as he had made it clear that he was unlikely to be considered a hostage, so he said nothing, just raised a saturnine brow as she came as close as she dared.

"Special Envoy." She used his title as a greeting, and thought again how very ugly these Vulcans and humans were. Didn't they know how their very presence offended any right-thinking Jesavaen? The look of them… Smooth skinned… She stopped herself from dwelling on them, began to speak to fill the silence.

"Special Envoy Silek, the Federation has responded to us and they will –"

Silek raised both brows in disbelief. "Madam," he said in his even tenor, "the Federation have responded to **no** threat of yours. They seek merely to close the Embassy and recover their personnel – if possible. To suggest my kidnap is cause for them to intervene is highly illogical."

The female stared at him uncomprehendingly, blinking her massive dark eyes as she turned over what he had said. "Illogical, surely, Special Envoy, to be so certain they will not attempt your rescue?"

Silek's face betrayed nothing, an impassive mask, and he reflected that the Jesavaen were a difficult race to deal with – their motivation was often not subject to any logic he had dealt with before. Their society contained so many layers that it was the subject of much debate, and it was oftimes caught up so much in ceremonial detail that attempts to separate the two were nigh impossible. However, what was certain was that only Vulcans could approach these people who gave insult by their every posture to other species. He had seen human members of his staff, and some of his Vulcan staff too – well-seasoned, experienced men and women – enraged by the unthinking, xenophobic impoliteness of the Jesavaen's. _It is not that they are unaware of how they cause offence, or lack understanding of this. It is that they do despite the knowledge._ The Vulcan returned his dark gaze to the female.

Tlojne shuddered visibly_. His eyes with that unhealthy rim of white surrounding it – like beads. Disgusting…!_ The thought was instantaneous, unbidden. Aloud, she stated, "They come, and they _will_ seek you out." On those final words she turned on her heel, heading out of the door to leave the Vulcan to his thoughts.

She offered a parting shot before it closed behind her. "They will supply the weapons we require, or it will not go well with you, Silek. **That** is my solemn oath as a Breeder."

"I do not doubt it, madam," Silek murmured to the now closed door. What precisely she felt she could achieve by making threats to him he could not assess? Jesavaen's insisted on judging all species by their own narrow set of values. He stifled the urge to sigh. A habit he had picked up after long association with humans.

Briefly he wondered where his wife and daughter were being held, but could not allow himself the luxury of concern; he had overheard some ill-hidden talk from his captors, but they were aware of the greater range of Vulcan hearing and tried to keep the information from him. He knew they were held in a separate place at some distance from his current position, but he had been unable to define exactly where _even_ through the bond. Logic told him this was a ploy that suited the Jesavaen very well indeed and would be used to provide better leverage against himself, and the Federation. A child as hostage always held greater value than any adult, no matter the species. Children were the future and precious.

Silek seated himself again and stared at the blank wall, tracing the grains of mica in the stone, before retreating into a contemplative trance. This way he would conserve what energy he had, and possibly think his way round the problem of being held against his will.

* * *

**Captain'sLog, Stardate 48215.5.: We are currently en route for Jesava IV to remove all Federation citizens since the outbreak of war. There are approximately 350 people remaining on world including Embassy personnel.**

**It is a sad day for the peoples of this world, and for the Federation, that they are unable to solve their differences equitably.**

Picard stabbed his forefinger at the computer console to switch off the small screen. He leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers thoughtfully over his belly to stare at nothing, lost in his own mind.

_Sad indeed_, he contemplated, but could not shake off his sense of impending doom. It was not often the Federation deemed it necessary for their citizens to be removed or Embassies emptied, but all efforts at peace making, at negotiation, had failed. There was no mediator the three factions trusted, and people were dying for it. _This_ revolted him, and he felt inadequate. It was a feeling he found he cared little for.

"Captain, I think you need to take a look at this."

Picard frowned and drew a deep breath before answering. "On my way, Number One"

He rose and headed through the ready room doors to stand before his First Officer who was consulting with Worf. "Yes, Will, what's the problem?"

Riker faced his Captain squarely, a grim expression setting his mouth into a hard line. "Put it up, Worf," he instructed, and then continued. "We received _this_ a few moments ago from Jesava." He jabbed a big thumb at the viewscreen.

Picard raised a brow, turning to look at the viewer.

The screen wavered momentarily, flickering, lines of interference racing over its normally matchless surface, and the Security Chief fought with the transmission to boost the signal.

"That's the best I can do, sir," Worf rumbled regretfully. His commanding officers stared at the screen thoughtfully.

The shape of a Jesavaen male coalesced, talking rapidly, his speech staccato with stress, and in the background they could just about make out the shape of what appeared to be human figures. The Jesavaen repeated his message, the computer enhancing the noise levels in response to Picard's request.

"To the Commander of the Federation Starship Enterprise, hear the words of The Favoured… We hold the Federation Special Envoy prisoner for the glory of the cause. If the terms of release are not met, then he will die, as will his family." He seemed to throw a glance over his shoulder before saying bluntly, "Stand by for further instructions."

That was that. No more, no less. Picard clenched his jaw – this was a development they had not expected. He addressed the Second Officer. "Mr. Data, were you able to trace the communiqué?"

The android rechecked his instrument panel, but had to reply in the negative, swivelling to gaze at his Captain. "I am afraid not, sir. The interference present in the Jesavaen atmosphere blinds our sensors effectively, making accurate placing of the signal nearly impossible. However, if the information is correct, and they do indeed hold Special Envoy Silek, then the coastal city of Eroc would be the logical choice."

"Question," Riker said slowly, "why the hell haven't we heard from the Embassy about this, or what passes as a ruling body?"

"That, Number One, I do not have an answer to." Picard gave the Klingon a faint nod indicating the big man should attempt to communicate with those in a position of power, or some semblance of a governmental body, if any was to be had. Worf obediently addressed the problem only to look up with an expression the Captain correctly interpreted as non-helpful.

Worf added, after checking the instrument panel again, "The transmission would appear to be recorded and not real-time."

Picard gave a faint grunt as he mulled over the information. "Conference," he announced, and went through to the observation lounge.

His senior officers wasted no time in following him, spreading themselves around the long table. Nor did he squander time, but launched immediately into the meeting with the thing uppermost in his mind. He needed data, and he wanted it now.

"What do we know of the war on Jesava, and its people?"

It was the android that offered first. "The war on Jesava involves three factions, Captain: the Freedom of Castes, The Favoured, and the Mec'hyM'Poyr. They –"

Riker interrupted. "Mec'hyM'Poyr?"

Data nodded gravely, and addressed himself to the Commander. "It is an archaic term which has no real translation in standard; its closest literal meaning is 'Those Who Might Be'." Seeing the First Officer had accepted his explanation he went on, "These three factions are responsible for the current upsurge in terrorism, basically due to a difference in Theology. Certain areas within texts sacred to all sects have come under dispute, and it is this contention over dogma…"

Riker's lip curled in disgust. "A jihad, by any other name…"

"Essentially that is correct," agreed Data equitably, and lapsed into silence as it registered his colleagues were disquieted by this news.

Religious warfare," murmured the Captain unhappily: he addressed himself to another question. "However, we do not have _conclusive_ evidence they hold the Special Envoy, as it has not yet been confirmed by the Federation Council."

There were murmurs of agreement from round the table, then Worf put in. "I advise that we assume they do, sir, and act accordingly."

Picard grunted in affirmation; he steepled his hands in front of him and asked Troi, "Were you able to sense the kidnappers, Counselor?"

The Betazoid shook her dark head. "No, Captain. Which leads me to agree that they were not transmitting in real time."

The Captain digested this. "Indeed?"

"Jesavaen's are a race who rarely deal with others if it is not to be conducted in person. It would be regarded as extremely bad mannered for someone to deal with a third party through a viewer. They much prefer to be in physical contact or, if that's unavailable, in real time. It's something to do with their sociological makeup, and the fact they evolved from herd animals who needed to be in sighting distance of predators." She paused, and added, "Of course, having warp capability has added to their xenophobic behaviours considerably."

"Hmm, yes," agreed the Captain and went on, "You sensed a lack of emotional output, then."

Troi nodded her head. "Yes, Captain. The method was chosen as a deliberate insult."

"Good job we've got thick skins, then," remarked Riker flatly. He frowned. "I can see how it's a good way of concealing the whereabouts of Silek, as well as giving us the finger. They may be presuming we have a telepath to help us."

"It is possible, also," Data added thoughtfully, "that they may decide to transmit a live broadcast as we approach Theta 44.362 Epsilon V, so that the Counselor _is_ able to sense them."

Troi's brows drew together as she considered this. "No –" she shook her head fractionally – "no, Data, I don't think so. Their mind set is so xenophobic – to such a disturbing degree – that to allow me to sense them, even if they _knew_ I was an empath, would be far too revealing. I believe they will continue to play this rather dangerous game."

"And I gather we are still too far away from the planet for you to receive any more information?" asked Picard.

"Yes, Captain," she agreed.

The Captain rose to his feet, moving to one of the large windows in the observation lounge. He stared thoughtfully out at the growing planet and its incumbent trio of satellites, whirling endlessly like marionettes on strings through the eternal velvet night. He watched without seeing, for long moments, the star at the hub of the system burning reddish-gold like a fire opal, and finally turned to regard his officers.

He addressed the Klingon. "Mr. Worf, apprise Starfleet Command of the implications we have just encountered on a secure channel. State I want a reply giving thorough guidelines, and include policy in that, on how we are to deal with this potential… _powder keg_. I need the information within the next five hours, and they _must_ treat this request as a matter of urgency."

Worf inclined his head minutely, and disappeared through the doors back to the bridge.

"Then what, sir?" enquired the First Officer.

Picard's mouth drew into a thin line. "We wait, Number One. We wait and see which of the factions contacts us first."


	2. Chapter 2

Vanessa crouched against a wall, hidden from the search party of Jesavaen militia, and every now and again she cautiously took a look from around the crumbling structure. Her heart was hammering in her ears, her blood a rushing noise, as she made certain her daughter was tucked against her body. How she had managed to avoid capture this long was nothing short of a miracle and it would not have been possible without the assistance of the Vulcan woman who crouched with her, listening in the frigid air for anything that could mean they would have to move. The child was silent, truly a daughter of Silek and of Vulcan, for she was unafraid or, if she was Vanessa had not been able to discern such. The only sign that showed how dependent T'Mila was upon her companions was the small hand that held Vanessa's own in a tight grip.

The group of militia passed where they hid by scant metres, the lights of their lanterns casting black shadows as they went, cutting through the dusk cleanly as a knife, the guttural tones of their voices carrying well through the chill. Vanessa's breath steamed despite the covering over her mouth and nostrils; she was glad she was a creature of Terra's cooler climes and not born of hot Vulcan deserts, for she knew both her daughter and Xeer were finding it harder and harder to function in this fast-setting winter. As the troops moved further away she relaxed, her body's posture a signal to T'Mila that they were safe for the moment, and then she hunkered further down so she could take the child into her arms.

"Mother," T'Mila said in her solemn, little voice, "you are crushing me."

Vanessa stifled a laugh, and tipped the small dark head so she could look into equally dark eyes, then stroked a lock of hair out of the way to tuck it behind perfect Vulcan ears, and rearranged the woollen hat she had found to keep the child warm. "I apologise, my daughter," she replied quietly, soft undertones, placing a mother's gentle kiss on a hot forehead.

"Vanessa," husked the other woman, her voice muffled through the layers of cloth, "we must go from this place as soon as possible. It is too dangerous for any of us to linger."

Frye nodded, all her training as a soldier of Terra was coming to the fore, a position she had trusted she would never be in again. But this _was_ why she and her husband had been selected to go to Jesava, for the skills that had been so long crafted across millennia, that hope thought were dead, were needed in this arena. Thoughts of her husband overwhelmed her for a second and fear for him filled her, fear too for T'Mila, as when she had been a soldier she had had neither a husband nor a child to consider. Soldiering was a selfish occupation, and could not allow for the luxury of loved ones; it made things far too complicated.

"Where do you suggest, Xeer?"

"There is a building with a cellar approximately four hundred metres from here in that area of the plaza – " Xeer pointed towards a dark entry way leading into a covered alley – "and there are indications there is some food still available as well as more clothing that will assist us in keeping warm and maintaining our disguise." The Vulcan woman checked the readings of her instrument again, and showed Vanessa the route it indicated.

Gathering T'Mila close to her, Frye ensured there was no discernible movement, wanting to make certain they would be in the clear and, as soon as she could see that this was so through the gloom of the early evening, she moved out, signalling silently to Xeer with a rapid hand movement. She kept low, as did Xeer and the child, hiding in the rubble and stepping round any obstacles, taking advantage of shadows lengthening as the low winter sun, all ruby fire, set over a stark, maimed landscape.

They finally fell through the open door of the building Xeer had found, scuttling behind it like crabs hiding after the tide has gone out, breathing thankfully that they had not been spotted once again. Taking stock of their surroundings, the adults immediately set about reconnoitring the shell-damaged house, looking for the cellar entrance and any food that might be there. It was a sorry affair. Whatever fresh food they found was spoilt, but there were a few staples the previous occupants had left in their haste and these meagre rations were added to the stash that they shared the burden of. Frye found some dried cereals, and a protein substitute that could be made into a meal, and Xeer found drinking water that had been placed in some containers and concealed in another room that had at one time functioned as a kitchen. Fabrics once adorning the walls of this dwelling were in tatters, their colours muted now, but more than acceptable as a method of conserving heat, and the broken furniture offered the promise of a fire.

Frye found the entrance to the cellar under the remains of several large pieces of furniture, hidden well, and she and Xeer cleared it carefully, listening all the time for a reason to stop their activity. Cautiously, Xeer went down the narrow steps one at a time, waiting until she could see in the darkness, her eyes adjusting to the deep shades lurking there. But there was nothing, and she gave the signal to Frye that they could come down and be at relative ease. Very little, or the brave few, would be moving about as the night finally came down, the air was full of the promise that snow was a few short hours away and the wind had started to gnaw raw chunks out of any exposed flesh. With the temperature settling well below zero, they moved tattered cushioning, bits of furniture and floor coverings to make a small den inside the cellar, ensuring the wind would not be able reach them, making it as snug as possible.

After a couple of hours of hard labour, a small fire was burning, water was bubbling in an old battered pot, and the food had been prepared, then heated to fill the hole in their bellies. It was no feast, but it would give them the calories they needed to survive, and the little girl could sleep safe with a semblance of comfort, for now.

The Vulcan wrapped herself tightly into a blanket they'd discovered, and put her hands out to catch the heat of the fire. "We must contact the Federation, Vanessa, as soon as possible."

"I know," Frye muttered tersely. "I've been trying to get this fucking transmitter to work but it seems it isn't in the mood to do that." She glared ferociously at the tool in her hand, and contained the urge to hurl it at the wall, then placed it to one side carefully. It wouldn't help matters, though she might feel a little better. Sighing deeply, she ran her hands through her hair, and edged closer to T'Mila, tucking the blankets cocoon like around her, fascinated as always by the half moon of lashes on a dusky cheek and her brows with the hint of arch from her human legacy.

Xeer watched the human woman with some affection, and a small amount of exasperation, though she remained silent on this occasion as the illogic of Vanessa's statement scarcely needed comment. She noted the tenderness Vanessa gave her daughter, and a pang filled her for her own children on Earth – she was so far from them - but she held a kernel of gratitude that they were not here with her. Closing her eyes, she almost regretted she had come to visit her friend when she could have decided to stay in Japan visiting her husband's family.

"They will be coming, Xeer, I know it," Frye said, startling the Vulcan out of her reverie. She held the other woman's eyes and could see Xeer was taken aback by this information and utter conviction. "Silek _knew_, I'm sure of it." Xeer could only nod, her knowledge of her cousin assuring her of this fact, while Frye assessed her memory of several days ago…

_She'd been fluffing her hair out with her fingers, drying it in front of the small mirror on the table and she hadn't heard him enter their apartment, was not aware that he stood beside her until his hand had trailed down her neck and rested on her shoulder. She'd looked up then, into his face, to see his fine mouth drawn thin, and a crease between his brows._

"_What troubles you, my husband?"_

_He had looked down at her, and for a fleeting moment there was warmth in his eyes, only for it to vanish as he thought of what he should say. "I must go to Eroc, my wife, and I have to leave you and our daughter. It is… __**unavoidable**__." Silek had paused, his hand on her shoulder had gripped tightly, his fingers leaving small round bruises. "It will __**not**__ be safe, Vanessa. You must prepare yourself for every eventuality."_

_The precision of the word and clarity with which he'd spoken it, __**'unavoidable'**__, made her still. She'd remained silent, sensing his turmoil through their bond, feeling his concern for her and their child, so she'd placed her hand over his and he'd looked down at her again, and she'd leant into his thigh, resting her head there and feeling his blood thrumming in his veins. They'd stayed like that for some time, until he'd taken her to their bed and made love to her with an urgency she didn't expect from him, as if it were both the first and the last time._

She found the small amount of equipment he'd left for them a day after he had gone to Eroc, and she knew that he'd been preparing for them to get away. She also knew he would have done everything in his power to ensure their safety already; it was just up to her now to get the job done. And she would.

Frye held out her hand to Xeer, and had it grasped gently; the rush of what was theirs warmed them both. Together they were determined they would survive, even if compromises had to be sought then they _would_ do whatever it took to ensure that survival. They owed it to Silek, to themselves and to T'Mila.

* * *

"Stand by, Federation Starship."

Picard came to immediate attention as the words filled the bridge. He spun his chair slightly so he could better see the Klingon behind him; a quick gesture from Worf's head assured him the Security Chief was already on it. He caught sight of the turbolift doors opening also, just as he faced the screen again.

"Ah, Commander. You've timed your reappearance well, it would seem."

Riker came down the ramp, a brow raised in question, and met Troi's eyes for a brief second but saw nothing in them but a brief warning. From that he deduced a conversation with her should be forthcoming, though her attention was fixed firmly on the Captain.

The Captain hooded his eyes, hiding the deep concern raging in them; it was unsuccessful as the Betazoid sitting by his side was more than aware of his turmoil, and of the quandary the response to the message he'd sent, to Starfleet, had placed him in.

"Incoming message, sir," rumbled Worf.

The bridge crew looked at the main viewer as one entity, and watched the figure of the Jesavaen who had featured so prominently in the earlier missive take form. He was crouching at the front of a building that had no distinguishing features, though it appeared damaged. Picard's mouth tightened; he would have them augment the information so that they could draw some relevant details from the landmarks – if they could. The male was cunning; his body filled out the screen so that he gave no - or very little - information away. This meant that Data's task was all the more difficult and he would have to get whatever was available to him, however he could.

_At least we know what our potential enemy looks like_, Picard speculated, watching the alien on the screen with no small interest. "Please extrapolate what you can, Mr. Data."

Worf announced from behind, "Another recording, sir."

"Agreed, Captain," Data said. The android flashed his fingers over the surface of his console, then turned to address Picard. "The interference cannot be corrected to allow for greater clarity, sir. However, the message is repeating on a standard loop."

"You got it all, Data?" enquired Riker; narrowed and speculative, his eyes had not left the screen.

"Indeed, Commander."

Picard grunted. "Very well, let's hear what they have to say." He settled back into his chair and crossed his legs.

The alien male huddled into a compact ball, shrinking into the folds of fabric around him, clutching at his cloak. The huge eyes, dark-rimmed, long-lashed and a liquid brown, blinked blindly, and the wide mouth with its flat lips parted to reveal strong yellow teeth. They ground for a moment, his jaw muscles working, tensing and releasing, and again… Then:

"Federation Starship, you will approach Jesava now and present weapons for hostage exchange. We will accept no less than what follows in the next three of your hours. Do not attempt to locate the envoy, or mount a rescue. Do not intervene in any way with the programme we have planned. Make no mistake, we _will_ kill the envoy if you deviate in any manner."

The message ended and began a rerun.

Riker leaned forward, the look on his face incredulous. "Is that it?"

Picard watched the broadcast carefully, looking for anything that could be of help, but saw nothing. The data he'd received from Starfleet was patchy at best and could not be relied upon to help them in this matter. "They are extremely cautious."

"Running scared, more like," the First Officer remarked, his tone showing his irritation.

Picard huffed out a breath, and sent a bland look to the Commander. "They are the ones playing with all the aces, Will."

Riker snorted as the poker reference was extremely apt, and then Worf offered from behind them, "Possible delay tactics, sir? While we wait to find out more about what they intend to do, our hands are tied." The Klingon regarded the screen with some uneasiness, and he shifted uncomfortably. What was proceeding here sat ill with him; it offended his sense of honour, of rightness. "I think also, Captain, that these manoeuvres will allow them to relocate the envoy with impunity."

Picard digested this, remaining quiet, then glanced at the Betazoid sitting beside him. "Deanna…?"

Troi started, she had not been aware of the conversation at a fully conscious level; it had swirled about her like a breeze, unlike the emanations she was now beginning to pick up from the planet. This close, it was possible to see the scars that ravaged and cut across the most highly populated continent. Five major cities burned, and the glow reached beyond the confines of the atmosphere; it was truly hell down there. She dragged herself back onto the bridge of the Enterprise and attended to the question asked of her, aware that they were waiting for her to speak.

"I apologise, Captain," she murmured softly. He waited patiently. "Any information I can give is… well, not much use, sir. It _is_ clear, however, they really don't want us to know who they are or what they intend."

Picard accepted this snippet of information with no change to his demeanour, just as Data announced, "We will reach orbit in thirty minutes, Captain."

The android had been busy analysing the small amount of data they had received from the message, and he now had garnered enough to act on it at one of the science stations. Rising to his feet he paced up the ramp and seated himself before one of the consoles; he ran the message through the equipment, staring carefully at the screen. Behind him a small audience had gathered, including the Captain and First Officer.

"Found anything?" Riker enquired evenly; he put his weight on the back of the chair, spreading it through his palms.

Data continued busily for a few more minutes, crosschecking the details, enlarging the view of a small section of the recording that showed something written. "The main building of the Wiczcynk'm'aer, Commander. This is where the terrorist was standing."

"Good work," Picard approved. "Conference."

Picard was leisurely, almost, as they entered the observation lounge, though a keen observer would have seen the revealing signs of tension in his body language, something he concealed well. He stood staring out at the star field before taking his seat at the head of the table, and continued in his contemplation until he was brought to the present by the atypical restlessness of his senior officers. They were unused to having their commanding officer so distracted. He spoke at last.

"As you are well aware," he began, "we've been instructed to remove all remaining personnel on Jesava in order that the Embassy may be closed." Looking anything but comfortable, he leaned over the table, clasped his hands together and passed his gaze over each of them carefully. "There is… more at stake than we at first thought. It seems we must attempt to find Special Envoy Silek and his family or we _will_ have an incident on our hands that could cause serious repercussions throughout this sector."

Riker stifled a response, stealing a quick glance at Troi. Was this what she had been trying to tell him? Surely not… If it had been he felt certain the Captain would have briefed him already, but the woman's face gave nothing away, it was closed as she studied the Captain in turn, assessing the gravity that sat there, so he asked instead the question they all wanted the answer to, "What repercussions, sir?"

Picard's mouth was grim. "Three of the neighbouring systems have been drawn into this dispute because of trade, and an essential mineral, used as a catalyst in certain refining techniques, found only, and mined _only_, on Jesava. Silek was in the process of negotiating, as an independent arbiter, a trade agreement, which would benefit all four systems. However, the site on which the mineral is found also happens to straddle ground sacred to two of the less well known factions on Jesava. As they're minorities, lesser castes, Silek was _not_ informed, and neither were they. The conjecture is that this is the reason for the start of what was, initially, a localised squabble, which has now reached international levels. Silek's capture was tied to this in some way, presumably as a bargaining piece against the Federation and the major factions. Command believes also that these smaller groups have thrown in their lot with Silek's captors." He let them chew this over briefly. "As to why they want weapons? That, I think, speaks for itself."

Before anyone could say a thing, the Captain added in hard tones, "Silek is the only means of preventing this –" he spat the next word out like a poisoned dart, disgust in his voice – "_war_ spreading to those neighbours, as well as being the only mediator the ruling faction on Jesava, and all other parties, will deal with."

"And the expectation is that _we_ risk ourselves," Riker stated clearly, receiving a brusque agreement from his Captain; his face acquired the same hard lines evident on Picard's face. "How long do we have?"

"Little more than a week."

"Sir!" Worf protested, driven to make a remark. "We have no way of scanning for the Special Envoy, nor is it by any means certain that we will be able to locate him." He growled the next comment, his hand clenching into a fist. "It would seem they set before us an insurmountable task."

"Agreed, Mr. Worf," Picard murmured. "But deal with it we must; I like it no more than you. Therefore, I want an away team assembled and sent planet side as soon as we have had a further communiqué from The Favoured."

"Aye, sir." Worf responded, somewhat chastened, and then he glanced up, thinking rapidly. "I believe we will need at least six of my officers with any away team, sir, and they must be suitably armed. This is an extremely hazardous situation."

Picard gave a curt nod. "I believe I can leave the details to your judgement, Lieutenant. Apprise me of anything you feel may need addressing in particular." The Klingon rose from his seat, dismissed, and made his way out of the observation lounge, so Picard addressed Riker, "Number One, pick out whom you'll need to take with you, and ensure there're no more than necessary."

"Yes, sir." Riker followed the Security Chief out of the doors.

"Data, you may return to your post. Counselor... Please stay." Picard was silent for a moment as he waited for Data to go, and then he turned to face the woman. "Deanna, I do not want to ask this of you, but I feel your presence on the away team to be essential… it is imperative that you go." His grey-green eyes searched her face, seeking the understanding he knew was there. "I realise this could be distressing for you but, you're our only hope of getting to grip with the situation, these people, and understanding even a small part of their motivation."

Troi gave a mute nod of agreement, and looked up into Picard's face; her eyes were darker than usual, troubled, and haunted. "I understand, Captain. I will do what I can."

He reached over the table, and patted her hand gently. "Thank you."

* * *

The Security Chief entered the shuttle finally, satisfied at last with the instructions he had left with his second but not in the least reassured with having to leave the ship in his hands. It was not that the man was incapable – he was more than efficient! – it was simply that Worf felt the Enterprise's safety was his responsibility alone, and needed him there to oversee everything. Including the safety of the Captain and crew.

Riker watched the Klingon take the seat beside him at the helm, recognising all the patent signs of disquiet, mixed with that peculiarly Klingon joy of going into a battle situation – or a _possible_ battle situation, he amended silently, hopefully. He could also sense impatience – on this occasion he didn't need to be an empath – as Worf rarely had any patience when he was uncertain of a situation, particularly a blind one. The First Officer sympathised with his friend; he was bloody certain he felt like it too. He was jumpier than that damn scalded cat on the proverbial tin roof. But whatever he felt would change sweet fuck all, and he fancied the Security Chief felt much the same. A done deal was a done deal.

Further discourse with Troi had not yielded anything of use either. All she had told him was that the Captain was severely shaken by the information from Starfleet Command - not that the further message from the Jesavaen militia had helped much either. A curt missive indicating they would be met at a designated spot inside the capitol was all they had had.

"He's not giving, Will," the Betazoid had said to him in an aside as they arrived at the shuttlecraft bay. She had glanced up at him with dark, worried eyes. "He's retaining it all, and there's scarcely a trickle out of him – very tightly controlled… It's as if he's been forced to make us go, but has no choice, and hasn't been allowed to ask any questions about the why's and wherefores."

Riker had regarded the Counselor consideringly. He was still perturbed by this information or, rather, the lack of it and his mind was in a state of conjecture about all the possibilities.

"We are ready to launch, Commander," Worf rumbled, bringing him abruptly to the present.

"Let's go, Lieutenant."

No further encouragement was required, and the shuttle rose to head out of the bay doors to the accompanying dirge of the alarm system. The little craft banked away from Enterprise, arcing beyond her, and her passengers watched as the sun of Jesava gilded the flanks of the great ship with fire, radiant against the midnight of space. Enterprise hung like a great swan, watching her cygnet swim into unknown waters, while ahead loomed the planet like a child's plaything; a ball of blue, white and green smudged with dark, grimy streaks. A pall of thick, grey smoke was filling the atmosphere, sure evidence of the bitter conflict.

They headed steadily for the planet's atmosphere, making for the spaceport of the city of Eroc, the capitol of Goysla, the major continent. Originally a seaport of enormous importance, Eroc had been the main trading route in past times, having many harbours and docks, and it had borne its thousand-year history well, having much ancient architecture showing the great aesthetics the Jesavaen's had. A grandeur that was not now in evidence as the city wore her battle scars none too well, and her fabled beauty was nothing but a faded shadow. The city reared from the ground like a rejected mistress, the blackened bones of her fingers beseeching her lover to come back, that all was forgiven.

Worf and Riker brought the craft neatly into land, easing back on the throttle and the engines whined to a halt. As the door-hatch hissed open, the away team arose to wait for the entrance to reveal the spaceport of Eroc. There was a haze on the city, and Worf, with two of his officers, moved to scan beyond the door opening, peering out into the vista. The Klingon grimaced slightly, then turned back to the rest of the away team, addressing Commander Riker.

"There is no one here to welcome us," he stated. He suspected treachery, knew these aliens could not be trusted.

Riker came and stood at his shoulder, feeling very much the same way, and took a long look out at the spaceport. If he was honest, he hadn't really expected there to be a guide, or committee, or whatever the hell it was they were going to decide to offer them. He wasn't sure, either, what he _did_ expect. "Not surprised," he grunted.

He continued to regard the view with calculating eyes, measuring the distance between buildings, looking for safe ways forward; he scrutinized them all carefully. There were a few buildings standing on the periphery of the spaceport and beyond them they could see the city with its fires, and the distinct, sweet odour of decay was brought to them on the edge of the wind. Also could be heard was the hum of weapon fire or the rattle of projectiles, slicing the silence the city sat in, highlighting the lack of movement, of bustle, or commerce, keenly.

The Commander turned back to the interior of the shuttlecraft and moved to where Troi sat. Her face was white, and he could see the strain livid there also; her mouth was a scarlet slash, like blood. "Deanna," he said gently, "what can you sense?"

The Counselor shuddered briefly, and closed her eyes against the overwhelming sensations, carefully filtering them down to a single point so she could manage them, and speak of them. She had been prepared, she was certain, but it had swept her aside as if her defenses were nothing but paper, ripping them apart so all her concentration was fixed on their repair. "There are lies, Will, and hidden things." She wished she could show him the other things she could feel, the horrors lurking. "So much agony…"

Riker laid a hand on her arm, comforting her. "What else?"

"The xenophobia is so… extreme, Commander. There is much hate; anger and bitterness they direct towards each other that I can only wonder how they achieved warp capability." She looked at him, her gaze sharp this time. "Make no mistake, Will, they hate us more than they hate each other."

The First Officer ran a hand through his hair, and drew in a deep breath, to let it out sharply. "Pretty much what I thought. But, is there any chance you can possibly sense where that guide has got to?" He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Is that who you're sensing the lies from?"

Deanna nodded. Her eyes darkened momentarily as a fleeting sensation whirled over her, leaving an impression, clarity of purpose, in its wake. "They are out there… _more_ out there, Will, and they are planning something."

Riker nodded slowly, and squeezed her arm, then he moved back to where the Klingon stood, his outline clear against the exit. As he told the Security Chief about what Troi had said, Worf's posture changed, and he turned to face the human officer, a deeply forbidding look on his face.

"I do not like this, sir."

"Nor do I," said Riker sharply. "I was hoping to leave Deanna here with a couple of your men, but now we have no choice but to take her with us." His eyes glittered dangerously, anger evident in them, mirrored by the Klingon. "This situation is untenable."

Worf's jaw muscles clenched. "I would also question the wisdom of leaving the shuttlecraft."

Riker punched the wall of the craft in frustration. "I know, Worf, but what the hell can we do? We can sit here and wait, or we are proactive and go take a look. And I vote for moving out rather than being sitting ducks, because every moment we are here means the envoy's life is more compromised." He shook his head angrily. "Fucking bastards got us by the short hairs, my friend."

Worf snorted, and gave a reluctant nod, then proceeded to deactivate and render the shuttlecraft unusable in case somebody decided they could do with a handy Federation shuttle. Removing a number of chips from the machine's control panels was not difficult and he made other adjustments of a less discernible nature – enough to give that possible someone an unpleasant surprise, he hoped. Rising to his feet, he cleaned off his hands on his trousers and approached the shuttle's entrance. As he did so, he placed the chips very carefully in a pouch that he secreted behind his sash.

"Keep close," he growled and signalled that they should draw their phasers.

He ducked out of the doors onto the tarmac, and spared a few looks to gain his bearings, then gesturing at the away team to follow, he headed off towards the nearest outlying building. The cratered surface of the runway made things difficult, and movement was slower than he would have liked. He would trust the Commander to watch over Troi, and the instructions he had given his officers had been most explicit. The gods had better be on their side if they forgot those orders!

They gained the interior of the building as quickly as they could and as three of the security guards went to scout it, Troi grasped Riker's arm forcefully.

"What's the matter?"

"They're close… very close." She frowned fractionally. "Somebody is watching us."

The Commander called over to the Security Chief. "Worf, the Counselor says there is someone watching us. See if you can find out who."

Worf crossed to where they both leaned against a wall, a tricorder in his hand, and he slipped the phaser into its sheath before reading the instrument carefully. His gaze flickered slowly and cautiously around the room they stood in; it was enormous, and empty so far as the tool in his hand was concerned, apart from themselves. He could hear the sounds of the guards' feet as they moved furtively around the building, echoing faintly, in its cavernous interior.

He addressed the Counselor. "Do you have any idea where they might be?"

In answer, she gave him a shrug. "No, I don't." She could see that this did not satisfy him, and exchanged a disturbed look with him; Worf thinned his mouth in dissatisfaction. "They _are_ here, Worf." Her tone was insistent.

The Klingon gave a mental sigh, and grunted in response. He appreciated the information even if it was inadequate.

Ahead, the room terminated into a series of corridors, each posted with a number of signs in the different native languages, all designating the areas visitors would require. Across the walls were the gaudy exhortations of advertising, appealing now to an empty auditorium, for all manner of goods, plying trade to the consumer – from the practical to the purely frivolous. Clothing, food, insurance, housing, vehicles… it was all there. Pictures that represented the state of a country's economic well being, showing the epitome of a wealthy and prosperous nation and its happy, well fed, contented citizens. The sorrowful truth was not in evidence – and the hidden remained silent, as they always had and always would.

"Which way, Worf?" Riker spoke quietly.

The Klingon swept his tricorder across the many corridors and their entrances, scowling in annoyance at the inconsistency of the readings – _Damn magnetic clutter_, he thought scathingly - then jabbed his forefinger towards the corridor furthest from them. "There."

The short passage finished round a sharp left hand turn, opening into a foyer. At the end closest to them were several desks with computer terminals in situ, though they appeared damaged, and splinters of glass from smashed bandit screens were strewn over the carpeted floor. There was refuse and filth littering the place also, and blood spattered the walls; it had dried in places to a muddy brown, testimony to slaughter, and in some areas there was evidence that a body had lain there before being dragged away.

Troi gripped her phaser until her knuckles were white, and stared about her. An emotional discharge seemed to hang in this building, charging her sensitivity into a full on gallop, rushing at her until she could _almost_ see the devastation that had reigned down on this place. The deaths were startlingly real to her, and she felt sick to her stomach, bile rising in her throat.

Along one long wall a slogan had been smeared in the blood of the fallen, across the haughty gaze of a regal looking male as he looked down from a glowing logo, exhorting the people to greater perseverance in the name of the Mec'hyM Poyr.

Riker, Worf and the security officers ignored all of this as so much unpleasant window dressing, and they herded out of the building with Troi closely guarded by them. The Klingon shook his massive head as the readings on the tricorder were still registering complete nonsense, with occasional hints at certainty, even though he had adjusted it.

"I am unable to get an accurate reading, Commander, of a regulated body such as we were led to expect to meet us. However, there is random movement, though I would expect this to be consistent with the populace of the city." He hooded his eyes, expressing the thought uppermost in his mind. "They appear to be playing a game with us."

Riker grimaced. "Hide and seek."

Worf snorted, but declined to comment; he headed towards the open street cautiously, the others following closely, phasers in hands. He sent some of his men on in front, only coming to a halt when they reached a pile of rubble. He crouched, and as Riker joined him, signalled to the other guards to follow his lead. The Commander watched the street with him.

The three officers reappeared some minutes later, Clarkson joining the others quickly, and Lt. Mayso squatted down beside them to make his report. He jerked his head towards the street. "There's a ground vehicle that appears to be waiting for us. We've checked it out, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it, but there's still no sign of the guide or welcoming committee."

Riker and Worf both nodded at this information and Riker was grateful for the suspicion Worf had managed to instil in his staff. It was a healthy attitude to take with you into an unknown situation like this.

"So no sign of anyone, just the vehicle," he mused out loud. He asked, then, "You saw nothing else?"

Dubois shook his dark head in a quick negative. "No, sir. Nothing that we would regard as a threat."

Troi stared at him. "But you did see something, didn't you?"

Both men shifted uncomfortably, troubled and unhappy.

"Report," Worf snarled, his eyes boring into them.

"Corpses, sir," Mayso muttered shortly. "Piles of the dead on funeral pyres…"

Dubois hung his head, the images burnt on his retina. "They are smouldering, sir – " he glanced up, a sickened look on his face, revolted to his core – "and there are kids out there."

The others digested this information, steeling themselves for what was to come, hating the expediency and that they had to ignore what they saw.

Riker shook himself into command mode again. "This vehicle – " he insisted, back on track now, his eyes narrowed to a thin line – "no one present at all?" At Mayso's quick affirmative, he grimaced slightly, sucking in a breath through his teeth, and continued, "I don't like this, Worf."

The twitch in the Klingon's jaw said it all, and he continued to stare out towards the street.

The Commander gave a sigh of frustration and perched precariously on a rock, as he mulled over the issue – no The Favoured, no promised guide, nothing! So they despised aliens, but how the fuck did you deal with someone who insisted on remaining invisible. It was ridiculous. If you wanted to parley, share a discourse, then there had to be someone to work with; you couldn't possibly work with shadows. Diplomacy, his hairy ass! This smacked of everything he hated about diplomacy.

"As they've given us such a generous invitation," he said, sarcasm lacing his words, "I suppose we'd better take it as there seem to be no better offers." He gave the nod to Worf, who grimly agreed and needed no further instruction, so with the security officers grouped protectively about them, they headed in the direction Clarkson, Mayso and Dubois had taken.

What greeted them beyond was carnage. The funeral pyres were scattered throughout the ruins, and the sad remnants of ordinary lives smashed into a thousand pieces was unmistakable everywhere. Here and there a few sorry figures stumbled through the streets, wrapping themselves against the cold, scrabbling through the wreckage in an effort to make a living or be forced to leave their home. Many already had left, heading towards the countryside in an effort to reach safety, to ensure they might live rather than be caught in this savage garden, preferring the uncertain status of refugee.

As they drew closer to one of the pyres, clouds of insects rose in an obscene mockery of beauty, their hard bodies flashing with iridescence in the rays of the low winter sun, their wings buzzing as they settled again to their feast. The sad bones of a small child showed from under the rubble of a building, the flesh torn from them by the scavengers and opportunistic beasts that were now part of the landscape.

Troi sensed rather than saw, the efforts the ragged people took to conceal themselves from these potentially dangerous strangers. Awareness of their difference was recognised also, and with that recognition came the stark smell of fear, intense and thick as fog, and beneath that the hatred. Then, beyond, looming like a squat beetle, hugging the ground with its low, sleek body was the vehicle.

It was very much as had been described, and they all fitted with reasonable comfort into the interior. As the engine activated, a small screen burst into life with the familiar features of the male who had thus far delivered all the previous messages. It was merely a repeat of what they had heard before and Riker's reaction to this was a noise of disgust. It tied into the universal translator, and he waited, hoping there would be more. There was, and he heard a grunt of satisfaction from Worf who had sat beside him, and watched as the Klingon's large forefinger traced the route on the map that was now showing on the screen.

"Better than nothing," Riker remarked, and shifted slightly so that Troi could sit between them both.

"This takes us through the part of Eroc most troubled by guerrilla activity." Worf was more than aware of the small female sitting beside him when he added, "I believe this is highly dangerous and the Counselor is at risk. I recommend that she and Clarkson – "

"We need her," Riker said starkly; he was unhappy about this too.

"I can look after myself," she said, annoyed with them both, her voice quietly forceful. "I don't need either of you to make decisions for me"

Worf looked as if he was about to protest, but she held up her hand, effectively cutting him off. "I'll be fine." She locked onto the Klingon's eyes, knowing he was the one who needed the most convincing. "You may not like it, Lieutenant, but you _do_ need me. There's no way you'll be able to deal with them unless I'm there."

"I am not convinced of that, Counselor," he stated unequivocally, and returned the glare she gave him measure for measure.

Riker folded his arms over his chest, and his eyes acquired an unfocussed look, deeply calculating. "I don't think you are indispensable either, Deanna, and Worf does have a fair point. I think you could do the same job from the shuttle, and at least we'd know – "

Troi snorted derisively. "Oh, spare me the platitudes, please." Her face settled into hard lines. "I'm the one who's got the most essential information on the Jesavaen's, Will." She glanced from one to the other of them, unconsciously putting across her own very charismatic appeal. "You _need_ me to tell you when they are lying, and they will not hesitate to lie. You know how these people are… **c'mon**, think… they distrust every other race to the point of paranoia, and at least with me present you'll know if they are telling the truth."

Riker listened to this little speech, admiring her stones, and quirking a brow at her; he allowed a small smile to twist his mouth. "I'm convinced, Deanna."

Worf shifted irritably, but backed down in the face of what he could not argue with, mentally appointing himself her guardian. He knew that they would all keep watch over her, but even so… He was unable to prevent himself from being concerned over her presence on the team and, even though he knew she was courageous, she was a weak link. Weak links had a tendency to be snapped and he didn't want to think of that.

"I'll be fine." Deanna insisted, her tone more than a little impatient, sensing easily what was troubling him. She scanned both their faces intently, and gave them a wry smile. "So let's go, gentlemen, and find out what these bastards want."


	3. Chapter 3

The rumpled sheet that lay on the surface of the bed was a sure indicator that Picard had lain there but recently, and had vacated not so long ago. It had been a reluctant vacancy, brought about by the patching through of a message from Starfleet Command and the Federation Council. He sat, brooding, in his chair, somewhat dishevelled, and more than a little tired; he had not rested even when he _was_ in his bed, much less sleep. There was little doubt that he would be unable to rest now.

His attempts to read had been risible, and the discarded book showed his endeavours to make sense of its passages were in vain, the pages lay open accusingly. So he sat and stared at nothing, eventually getting up to wander to the shower and to dress. As he wasn't on duty for some few hours he considered going horse riding, or fencing? Perhaps Guinan would be available? Then he dismissed the thought, knowing full well that the woman was far too perceptive and would have had this juicy issue spread-eagled on the table and dissected like a lab rat in moments. She knew him far too well, and on this occasion he could not afford to have her too close, much as he regretted it. His mind tossed the ideas around like flotsam, eventually settling on riding.

The Captain dressed, and drank the hot tea he had requested, savouring the taste on his tongue, then left his quarters making his way to the nearest holodeck. A few hours of hard physical activity would help to quell the demons. At least, he hoped it would.

* * *

Troi was unable to rid herself of the sensation of watchers, eyes burning, waiting, hoping… everywhere. _Damn this_, she thought, hating the paranoia _she_ was starting to feel too - it was an insidious infection - shivering despite her thermal uniform, despite the warmth of vehicle's interior, feeling the cold outside anyway. She knew there was people in the ruins of the once-beautiful city, had seen them, and could _sense_ them; she felt the whole gamut of despair, but wanted to dwell too closely on **not** a single strand of it. Mutely, she watched the ruins of the city roll past them as they sped on their way to meet with the representative of The Favoured. Across pot-holed roads, catching fleeting glances of life, a child in rags, or some kind of domesticated animal, scavenging in the rubble and twisted metal.

She spied adults, armed with makeshift weapons, a bit of wood, some piping, and others engaged in more 'humanitarian' pursuits. Digging through the collapsed masonry, looking for survivors of the most recent outrage, their concern for their fellow citizens a welcome balm to her frazzled nerves. The people on the road, travelling to whatever destination it was they had selected, moved aside for the oncoming car, sparing a glance perhaps, but bundling themselves and their belongings deeper into the gloom so they could follow it with smouldering hatred. It was this hatred Troi found so choking, and she knew the evidence of their apparent ease did nothing to endear them. All they were to the watchers was more officials, rich and sheltered from the harm that had been done to their countrymen. She was grateful they could not see they were aliens. The ugly mood hanging over the city reeked of retribution.

"Deanna?" Will Riker's voice sounded in her ear, and she glanced round at him, managing a smile.

But he wasn't fooled by the smile, and reached for one of her hands where they lay sitting on her lap. Clasping it, he searched her face, blue eyes knifelike, and she read the unspoken question in them clearly.

Shrugging, Troi flashed him a small grin. "It's a little… intense, Will." There was more she could say, but there seemed very little point, as he knew anyway.

"Yeah, things are pretty grim, Deanna. Let's hope things work out and we can get back to Enterprise sooner, rather than later." He nodded gravely, meeting her gaze sympathetically.

Worf spared a glance for the Betazoid and resisted the urge to add something, yet more pointlessness; it was what it was. He found she was looking at him after all, and he tried to ignore the sensation, his mouth tightening as he checked the co-ordinates yet again.

Her hand rested on his arm, small and white. "Thank you," she said.

He cast a look at her from the corner of his eye, stiffened slightly, and then gave an almost imperceptible nod. Sometimes, her accuracy regarding his emotional state left him marvelling.

They came to a halt, quite suddenly and unexpectedly. Worf could find no way past a fallen building – it loomed over them, an icy monolith - and there was nothing for it but to continue on foot, a task they felt even less happy about than they had before. He left his seat and went to the door, set flush into the side of the car, and released it cautiously, looking out into the street. There was a flurry of activity, some rapid movements as dog-like creatures scurried out of the way, alarmed by the smell of him and what was in the vehicle. This was like nothing they had ever scented before, and they halted eventually, curious, turning only when they had put enough distance between themselves and the car to watch with green-backlit eyes. One, a large beast, was brave enough to growl menacingly, baring long canines at them and bristling its fur around its neck, before it retreated, scaled tail stiff with defiance, and paced away.

The Klingon watched this display, noting the massive jaw structure, the belligerence, and the apparent ease the things had reverted to pack behaviour, decided this was something that needed to be carefully watched. It was fascinating, he decided, as he removed the tricorder and flipped it open again, that no matter what niche presented, something would always be there to fill it. Such strong, opportunistic self-preservation was admirable, particularly from a species that seemed to be representative of domesticity on this planet. Scanning a way forward at last because the instrument seemed to be functioning within reasonable parameters at the moment, he redirected his attention to the away team.

Waving his officers to the fore, they spread out neatly, carefully into the wedge-like formation he desired. There would be no chances taken with anyone's life. He slid back to stand by Riker.

"With permission, sir?"

"Lead on, Worf."

Vehicle secured, they clambered over the building's corpse, Riker reaching to grab the Counselor when a toehold failed and fingers slipped, tackling the rubble until they all stood at the top, panting with the exertion, and flexing hands that had spent too long in frost that had settled into crevasses. The way down loomed in front of them, no less steep and hazardous, more so now the ice was thickening on stone. They moved more slowly, taking their time to reach the bottom, wanting to remain in one piece, grateful that dusk was hiding them.

No more than two hundred metres was left now of their journey, and they wanted it at an end. They marched forward as one, skulking in the twilight, taking advantage of the gloom, looking neither left nor right, intent on the goal, then halted. Worf sent one of his men forward, and he returned quickly, letting the Security Chief know what was ahead. Satisfied, Worf waved them on again, and he dropped back to Riker and Troi to let them know what was going on.

"It would seem there is nobody to greet us yet again." His breathed hissed out as white vapour. He didn't like the grey colour Troi had, and it forced him to enquire, "Are you all right, Counselor?"

"Fine," she said, tersely, placing her hand on the butt of her phaser.

Neither man missed the movement.

"We need to get out of this cold, Worf," Riker stated; he wanted to get into shelter as soon as possible, whatever that might hold and he shared a look with the Klingon, one that said the woman was _not_ all right; they both knew it, but wouldn't set themselves up for an arsekicking.

Mayso reappeared, solidifying as he came close. "Sirs," he said, acknowledging all three. "There is still no sign of The Favoured."

"No welcoming committee, eh…" Riker let the comment hang. "Anything else?"

"Very little, sir. However, the building is being checked thoroughly."

Riker regarded the place with some misgiving; it could be a trap, probably was. But he also knew that Worf was nothing if not methodical, and if the guards gave the all clear then he would go and stick his neck through the noose. His and everyone else, he reflected.

The two tall men stood watching and waiting, as Mayso made his way back to his colleagues.

Troi stirred suddenly, the pulse of animosity so powerful it left her feeling as though she'd been punched. Both turned as one, but Riker reached her first.

"Will… it's not safe." She grabbed his arm. "We can't go there!"

The men looked at her.

"Undoubtedly," Worf muttered. "However, what choice do we have, Deanna?"

"Worf's right," said Riker, his voice was clipped, and his eyes bore into her again. He raked the surroundings, and he and Worf conferred momentarily before they moved to a slightly better vantage point, one where they had something solid against their backs and something they could hide behind.

Squatting, Riker idly stirred the dirt between his boots with the fingers of one hand, the other resting between his thighs, and stared through the pall of smoke, every sense stretched. At first he saw nothing, but then, there, movement, something was definitely out there. Worf's presence at his shoulder reassured him that it was not imagination, a reward he had not looked for, or wanted.

"You too, huh?" he whispered, and the Klingon let out a small growl in affirmation. "Stay here, Deanna."

They crawled, commando style, towards a small outcrop, and she watched them go, shivering slightly as the wind stirred her hair, lifting it into her eyes. She leaned back into the shadows of the early evening waiting for them to come back to her; she could see them both discussing the situation heatedly, and sense their growing bank of emotions, a mix of impatience, concern and distrust. She was filled with a grudging respect for the tactics the Jesavaen's had – after all, for a force with lesser discipline it could prove their undoing, eroding the links holding such loose allies together ultimately. She didn't think they factored in the training the Federation gave its officers though.

She felt something from both of her friends then, and she saw the cursory hand signal gave Riker gave her, so copying their earlier movements she crossed to join them. "Yes?"

Riker was peeved, as whatever had been there wasn't now, which meant he'd spent time crawling in the dust for no reason. "Did you get any other presences in the ruins, Deanna?"

She examined what she'd received – blurred, ephemeral, but dark and threatening – and tentatively allowed herself to be folded into the ambiance surrounding them. There it was, hidden swiftly, quenched, stilled, but it _was_ there… lies on lies.

She nodded. "There is something watching us, but it… they…" She trailed off, shrugging as she could not explain adequately, and gazed at them both apologetically.

There was a noise of disgust from Worf, and he flipped his tricorder out again. No damn good, it was inconclusive again, so he jabbed at it for the umpteenth time. "Well, whatever is out there," he announced finally, "is good at hiding. It seems the interference from the troposphere is as effective at concealing 'them' from us as the masonry. Our instruments are largely useless." He forced his deep tones into a semblance of patience. "We are in their hands, it seems, once more."

The First Officer sighed inwardly, in agreement with Worf, and then spotted the returning, murky shapes of the security personnel. "Report."

There was a flash of white, briefly, as Mayso grimaced. "There is nothing, Commander. All the rooms we searched are empty, and the tricorder readings are still atypical. Gilh'r and I both managed the bottom floor, but there was too much ground for us to cover it as effectively as we'd like." He looked aggrieved. "The others have been unable to be quite as thorough. If we could get the tricorders to –"

Worf barked a short laugh. "But we cannot. Nor is the Enterprise readily available to us." He added, more tolerantly, "We do what we can in the circumstances."

Mayso gave a nod of agreement. "Aye, sir."

"No choice then," Riker stated firmly. He ran his hand through his hair, and jerked his head towards the building. "Less talking, more walking. Go." He made off resolutely, the others following, Troi sheltered between them.

The building they headed for was surprisingly intact, particularly in comparison to its surroundings, nor was it a particularly grand structure; it would have been of little note in Eroc's heyday. There was a used look to it, doors hanging open like jaws, bidding them welcome, and they crunched over shattered glass, the stone of the floor scarred and pitted. Ragged material hangings fluttered fitfully, stirred by the wind as it soughed its way through. All the rest was silence.

Worf and the others palmed their phasers, then moved cautiously further into the building, taking a breath, ready for anything. He could see nothing, however, and after a moment of conference, he slipped the phaser in his hand back to its holster, and turned about while his eyes adjusted. The fading light of Jesava's sun hit the edges of furniture, lighting them with fire, bringing to sharp relief the shapes of his companions. They were standing in a loose group, and as he watched they followed his lead placing their phasers back in their holsters, but they remained alert, ready and watchful.

Riker made his way over to Worf, and for a moment he said nothing. He ran the scenario through his head, calculating options. "Where the fuck are they, and what are they playing at?"

The Security Chief eyed his commanding officer, and decided that there was no response required. He briefly thought about checking the tricorder again, but discarded the idea as a waste of time and energy so, frustrated, he walked further into the building, indicating to the security officers they should fan out. Riker followed, with the Counselor by his side. After what seemed like futile hours, they rejoined to confer.

"There is still no sign of The Favoured, Commander," Worf reported, glumly.

"No point being here, then, is there?" Riker commented to no one. "We may as well head back to the vehicle, because I sure as hell am not happy about being in here. We are setting ourselves up for an ambush." He waved a hand towards the outside. "I get the feeling they'd just love to catch us in here."

"Agreed, sir," Worf said.

They began to make their way back to the vehicle, not looking forward to the climb over fallen masonry to get to it. It had been hard before, it would be bloody nigh impossible now that the night was upon them, as it was bitterly cold. Overhead twin moons crested, one a baleful yellow and the other crystalline white, casting eerie shadows over their faces, the silence heavy and watchful. Stars glittered in velvet, wreathed about with mist, white diamonds in the sky, and Riker squared his shoulders in an unconscious, almost nervous movement. Every hair on the back of his neck lifted and his spine tingled in anticipation and he didn't need to look at the Klingon, or any of the others, to know they could feel it too. There had been a subtle shift, imperceptible almost, but the power had moved; it had grown to such an extent that it was practically tangible now. A quick glance at Troi shocked him, every drop of colour had drained from her so she looked grey, even her normally vivid mouth blended with her skin.

"Deanna?" he asked, and saw Worf's body drop just as a security guard did; he saw, in slow motion, the sudden expansion of the man's head as something exited from the back of his skull. He grabbed her and rolled, just as the staccato burst of weapons alerted them. The fall took the breath out of their bodies and they panted for a moment before crawling towards the Klingon.

Riker reached his friend first. "Worf?" he said harshly.

The hand he reached out to a shoulder was acknowledged briefly, and then: "Projectile weapons, Commander."

"Yes." The Commander could see that Worf's arm was bleeding, and reached to look at it. "Damn it, man," he growled, angry, but not at Worf, just the situation.

"Flesh wound," Worf ground out, wanting to get to his fallen man, knowing by the way the body was crumpled that he was dead. It had been a clear headshot, but he needed to make certain. He rose, keeping his body low, and ran towards the body, and launched himself as another volley sounded out about them. From another direction, there was more fire; they were caught in crossfire!

Riker and Deanna were on their feet too, racing towards his position, and Riker heard them then, voices, not human, so he gripped the woman and ran, then felt her ripped out of his grasp as his world turned impossibly bright, and his ears seemed to shatter. Thrown metres away, he saw Worf and the other Enterprise officers illumed against the explosion; he saw masonry hurtling, deadly, towards them, and staggered to his feet attempting to get to the prone body of the Counselor, as she lay exposed. Against the deadly rain, he saw Worf attempting the very same, the killing rage now blazing swiftly through Klingon veins, oblivious to anything except his goal. They could not allow her to be taken. One hostage was bad enough, but more would be disastrous.

Both were unmindful now to anything else, and adrenalin pumped through Riker as his mind raced. Racing towards Troi, he ducked and wove, saw Worf doing the same, knew the security officers were covering them as best they could, firing into the night, the bright beams of the phasers lancing outwards.

More liquid fire fell, and the rattle of the weapons pierced the night. Worf felt himself propelled violently backwards to the ground as a bullet ripped across his heavy temple, and blackness jeered at him. Shaking it off, desperately attempting to remain conscious, he rolled onto his belly and attempted to crawl to Deanna, but another well-aimed shot caught him, halting him in his tracks. The others too! The same fate awaited them – there were too many, they couldn't get to her, and the last thing he remembered was a Jesavaen foot kicking him in the head, and the butt of a rifle swinging towards his face.

* * *

The dull thudding of his brain in an outsized cranium was what eventually woke the Commander. Groaning, he made an attempt to sit up, but fell back as his head threatened to come off his shoulders, and he lay there for a time, breathing deeply and listening to the sounds around him. Riker made a mental catalogue of where he hurt, and as he did memory came flooding back as clear as a stream.

He struggled upwards, forcing his eyes open, and croaked, "Worf?"

The reed like sound of his voice appalled him, and he ran his tongue over his lips, realising just how parched he and they were. Then he caught the sound of another breathing close by, so he shifted carefully, stifling a moan of pain because of a dislocated shoulder, and dragged himself to the supine body, easily identifiable as that of the Klingon. Without sparing thought for injury, Riker shook his friend roughly.

"Worf! Wake up, dammit! Worf!"

The answering groan made him cease, and it was then as he waited for the man to stir that he began to take stock of his surroundings. His first impression was that they were in a cave, and the fire lit centrally did little to dispel that impression. Certainly it was far too dull for his eyes to make out details, but the light flickered around the walls to leave mental pictures for him to examine. The only thing he could be certain of was that they had been brought to this place deliberately, but the question remained unanswered, by whom?

Worf was finding it hard to regain consciousness, and when he finally arrived there he was almost immediately assaulted by the painful recollection of Deanna Troi's prone body, and the fact that he had failed. Struggling to a sitting position, his gaze flickered wildly around the place they were in, settling eventually on the Commander's face without recognition at first. Then he hissed out a breath as his temple exploded in agony; his face felt swollen and his tongue told him he had a few loose teeth. Stoically, he ignored it, swallowing the blood in his mouth. "Deanna?"

"No idea." Riker shook his head. "And I don't know if any of the others are here either"

"We will check" determined Worf. "Perhaps we should –"

A new voice entered the conversation at that moment, disturbing them from their train of thought. "So… you wake."

They turned their heads in the direction of the sound and saw in the dull glow of the wood fire a shadow separate from the depth of the others. It lifted itself to its feet, and moved slowly to the crackling flames, feeding them with another piece of wood, stirring the embers so it caught.

All possible hurts forgotten for the time being, both men became utterly alert. Worf growled, "Who the fuck are you?"

The figure, satisfied with the flame the wood had, tossed it into the fire, and retrieved a piece of metal, poking at the wood, putting it into place, making sure the blaze was controlled. The scanty light increased, revealing a Jesavaen male who was watching them with a greedy intensity, and curiosity. He sat at the fire edge, close enough that they could smell him vaguely, a damp, earthiness. "I am Liald."

Riker examined the male minutely. "Where are our friends, and why did you bring us here?"

"So many questions, offworlders," Liald said easily. He ignored them both for long moments, intent on the pot hanging over the fire, removing it and slopping the heated contents into four containers. He rose again, bringing two of the containers to the Federation officers and set them down far enough away that he wouldn't be ambushed or, caught unawares.

He backed off from them, watching them both carefully. He knew they were injured, had been left for dead, but that didn't mean he was going to trust them. Who knew what they were capable of? Liald seated himself on the opposite side of the fire again, picking up one of the other cups and taking a sip.

Seeing this as an offer of trust, if not friendship, Riker reached for one of the containers that had been left for he and Worf, gripping it tightly and smelling the contents. It was rank, but it was wet, so he took a large gulp and the liquid soothed his parched tissues better than he could have imagined, spreading warmth through his belly. Worf followed his example, and swallowed it quickly.

"It will allow me to reset that shoulder," Liald added, "with only a moderate amount of pain, and should also help the other injuries you have. It decreases swelling."

"Thank you." Riker put the container down, empty, but was suspicious. "Would you answer our questions, Liald?"

The male took a gulp of air, slitting his nostrils. "If I can."

"Are you a member of The Favoured?"

Liald looked startled, then uttered a short bark of laughter, and spat into the fire. "Me?" He chuckled to himself, and then said coldly, clearly, "Shit-eaters, all of them. They sniff each others arses and do nothing…" He shook his head. "If you must place me, offworlders, then I am one of the lost, but I am no one, we are no one. I have my own reasons for helping you."

Worf narrowed his eyes, the edge of the pain was gone and he was thinking more clearly. "A mercenary." He asked clearly, "What's your price?"

Liald did not appear to be insulted by this bald statement and stirred the embers again, casting on yet more wood. He looked up into both faces. "That really depends on what you have to offer, Federation offworlders, doesn't it?"

He rose in an unhurried way, moving towards the rear of the cave, taking with him a cup, and crouching he lifted another figure so that he could feed the liquid drop by drop into its mouth. The figure sighed, but swallowed, and Liald was quite gentle as he placed it on the ground again. He moved back into the firelight.

"I saved your lives, did I not?" the Jesavaen said, and went on, "So that should be worth something to you, shouldn't it? Your skins…"

More games! Riker was tired of this, and spat the next comment out. "Fuck you, how can we negotiate?" He stifled a gasp, he'd moved too quickly and his shoulder protested loudly, so he was shocked to find the alien male next to him as he moved very fast indeed.

"Place your back against me," he was instructed, and he had his arm held, then felt strong fingers probing the joint, testing the way it sat in his shoulder causing him a considerable amount of pain. The male then yanked sharply and it settled into its socket with an audible pop. Liald dropped the arm and backed away to place some distance between them.

Riker was confused, and sore. He tested the shoulder gingerly, but it moved freely and didn't hurt anymore, so the alien had done well in his opinion. He sighed. "My thanks to you… again."

Liald inclined his head.

Worf, who had watched this silently, asked, "What can we offer you for your assistance?"

The male wrapped his cloak around him, shaking its folds into place while he considered the question, but redirected instead. "Are you able to walk? I dragged others of your kind to this place."

Riker glared hotly at the Jesavaen, cutting off a retort, and nodded brusquely, getting to his feet. He moved to where he had seen Liald administer the fluids, Worf coming with him, supporting him across the short distance. They slipped down beside their colleague, and Worf ran his hands over the man carefully, as the Commander gathered his strength and assessed their captor, if that was, indeed, what he was.

The man was still unconscious, breathing painfully, each breath a rasp, and well spaced. Running a hand over the man's skull tentatively, Worf swore when they made a gruesome discovery; his hand came away sticky with partially congealed blood and he rubbed it between his fingers trying to estimate how long ago it was the injury had been made. There was very little that was fluid, which meant they had been knocked out for quite some time.

"Alive?" Riker queried. "Who is it?"

"Yes, but not for much longer," Worf replied, and then qualified it. "Half his head has been blown away." He wiped the blood on his uniform, more would make little difference and it would remind him of the honour this man had died with. "Lomas, Commander."

The Commander was suddenly deeply weary. Lomas was… _had_ been a good man, a damn promising officer with a career in front of him. It was a sickening waste. He directed his attention to Liald again. "You said 'others'? Where?"

"Here," the Jesavaen responded, and Riker turned to see him on the other side of the space kneeling beside yet another figure. He rose, and made his way slowly over there.

"Who is it?' asked Worf, who was settling Lomas carefully.

"Mayso," said Riker seconds later. He managed to get the man sitting by propping him up against his good arm, and he directed all of his concentration on the officer. "Can you hear me?" A mute nod followed, then an indrawn breath. The man grunted. "Hurts."

Riker gave him a hasty examination, very quickly establishing the damage as Mayso winced when he touched his upper body. "Collarbone is broken, and an arm, though it has been splinted. Can't say for certain what other injuries there might be." Riker addressed his next words to the Jesavaen. "Where are the others?"

"The others were dead when I got to you," Liald answered shortly, and shrugged. "There was nothing I could do."

"Did you see a female? One of my species?" He managed to sit Mayso against the wall after assisting him to drag himself there.

"There _was_ a female," said the Jesavaen quietly. "Is she of importance to you? A breeder, perhaps?"

"She is of importance," Worf agreed slowly, uncertain of the 'breeder' issue. "Where is she?"

"Others took her," stated the male; he watched them closely, not really able to read them, but wanting very much to understand, and yet still was utterly repulsed because of his social conditioning.

"We will pay well, if you can help us to retrieve her," Riker offered, still uncertain what motives this male had, and unsure if he would be able to grasp them even if he did know.

Worf made his way over to Mayso and settled to the floor as he listened to this exchange. Perhaps Liald could assist them, but first they needed to find out more about him and why he was a philanthropist in a society that seemed to loathe all that was different?


	4. Chapter 4

_…Their words mostly noises  
Ghosts with just voices  
Your words in my memory  
Are like music to me_

_I'm miles from where you are,  
I lay down on the cold ground  
I, I pray that something picks me up  
And sets me down in your warm arms…_

_Snow Patrol – Set the Fire to the Third Bar_

* * *

Rysab stood at the top of the stairs leading to the cellar, and fingered the throwing knife he had secreted in the sash wound around his torso, its keen edge reassured him a little and reconciled him to the unthinkable act he was about to commit. But it had to be done, because _she_, and so many others of her ilk, was wrong! He checked also for the small firearm and the ammunition it required, solid strips of metallic death, making certain it was secure about his person, as this was something he didn't want to lose; it could prove invaluable if they were caught. He preferred a quick end.

Listening again for any sounds of movement in his direction, Lysab hesitated for a moment longer before setting his foot on the path that led to possible oblivion and then, resolved finally into determination, made his way down the stairs to the cage. From a pouch, he took out the keys that opened the door set into the bars, and he unlocked it, hands shaking, as quietly as he could, fearful he would be caught red-handed at the deed. He did it quickly before his courage failed him, but did it because he knew, in his heart, it was the _right_ thing to do. Jesava was still too fragile to be involved in intergalactic policy, or intrigue - too young and too ripe for exploitation.

In the cell, Silek rose to his feet, a question on his lips, but silenced it at the brief shake of the Jesavaen's head. Rysab gestured and the Vulcan came closer to him. He husked carefully, "I have drugged those that are here, and they will be unconscious long enough for us to get away."

Silek narrowed his eyes to dark slits and he looked askance at the male, his logic all but abandoning him, as this was an entirely unanticipated turn of events. His mind working furiously, he made a rapid decision, because if this _really_ was an unexpected 'gift on a silver platter' – a term he'd heard Vanessa use once or twice – then he should definitely take it. There were other human idioms he could think of that fitted this instance, such as 'never look a gift horse in the mouth', particularly apt in this case. However, he could also see that once his choice was made it was something that required immediate and urgent action, so he put aside his curiosity momentarily, filing it for later examination.

He gave a sober nod, readying himself for whatever was to come, and followed the Jesavaen up the stairs and out into the building, fully expecting to see a firing squad to take him for disposal. Instead, a few of his captors were lolling, undignified, upon the seating scattered about the room with their bodies slumped, faces vague, slack. Drugged indeed, it would seem. More questions leapt like salmon into his head but he continued to hold his tongue; he would speak with this male as soon as he could as it seemed obvious there were things of import here he was unaware of. Scanning the room, he saw that the native male was busy, selecting garments for him, and he moved to join him.

Rysab scoured the contents of a chest, grabbing some robes for the envoy, and an outer cloak, and tossed them to him, watching critically as he put them on, checking the way sashes were tied, cloth wrapped, then satisfied that the Vulcan had done all correctly, he led the way outside.

Assaulted by the sudden exposure to sunlight, Silek's nictitating membrane flicked protectively into place for a few seconds as captivity had made him unaccustomed to, and unprepared for, the strength of the sun; his internal clock told him it was six days he'd been held, according to the pattern of his home world, so somewhat more in Jesavaen terms. The length of time he had been a prisoner chafed at him, as it would surely bode no good for the task he had set before him; it would be to late for appeasement or negotiation, of that he had no doubt. He halted briefly, taking his bearings.

The Jesavaen male waited impatiently for the envoy, his eyes flickering left and right, body tense, and came back a short way to encourage him to move faster, gesticulating wildly with his hands. This Silek did, appreciating that choosing to tarry in these circumstances might forfeit them both their lives. A scenario that he would not wish, and one he wanted to avoid if at all possible. So when the native decided to run, Silek followed him, his muscles protesting slightly at first to their unaccustomed, enforced, movement, but they soon began to loosen, and welcome the effort, after so long being restricted.

They shortly crested the hill, and made their way past the head of land along the cliff's edge, Rysab sure-footed as a chamois, until they came to a narrow, almost invisible, pathway that led down the face of the cliff past shrieking 'seabirds', furred, leather-winged beasts with long, sharp bills and serrated teeth. Setting their feet on the treacherous ground, they began the climb down the steep, slippery route.

The brutes mobbed them, beating at them with their wings, as they moved past nests with small, ugly, pups, their winter fluff puffed up against a bitter south-east wind filled with sleet that stuck and froze to the treacherous rocks. Below, the sea pounded, slick and grey, and Silek found the wind snatched the very breath from his lungs as it buffeted him against the rock surface. Clinging to whatever holds his numbing fingers could find, he followed the Jesavaen doggedly and was relieved when his feet touched solid ground again.

But Silek had no pause, for Rysab made off at a run again, settling easily into a steady jog that he could maintain for hours. Silek loped beside him, his Vulcan physiology a definite advantage now in this somewhat lighter gravity, neither of them pausing until the Jesavaen finally headed across the pebbled beach into a cave that was presently dry. The Vulcan could see, however, that this would not remain so as there were clear water marks along the walls of the cave and seaweed was lying in messy, salt-laden strands throughout the entrance; tiny pools of water rested quietly between the rocks that partially obscured the cavern, their surfaces clear, shards of ice sharp as cut glass collecting at the sides. Outside the sleet became almost horizontal as the wind suddenly strengthened. The respite was welcome, and both stood for a moment gaining their breath, panting from exertion.

Rysab turned to face the envoy, composing himself. "The tide will be turning shortly," he said, his voice a whisper and the echo after it a sibilant hiss, "and we must make our way to my contact." He pointed into the rear of the cave. "There is a way up, but we have to be quick."

"Agreed," responded Silek. As the Jesavaen turned to head further into the cave, he asked quickly, "Who are you, and why are you doing this?"

He halted, and his hood fell back to reveal long mottled ears, tattooed at their edges with peculiar little designs, colours running rampant through them, then he turned to face the Vulcan, and took in a deep breath. Silek was startled, the passive mask of his face slipping, and his logic had cause, _again_, to falter in the face of this because his scent had been _shared_! No other native had ever done this, _not one_, and he was momentarily too shocked to think of a response. The Jesavaen was grave, deeply sad, as he looked at the envoy, his eyes holding such depths of despair that even a Vulcan could find himself moved.

"Special Envoy, I ask that you would wait until we reach safety. I swear I will offer you an explanation that will help you understand this better." He bowed his head towards the envoy, utterly polite, almost submissive. "I _swear_ you will reach safety."

With that he headed away, and Silek was left with no choice but to go along, accepting what this male had said despite the myriad questions that were left unanswered.

* * *

Picard scanned the Jesavaen face on the main viewscreen minutely, searching it keenly for any hints that could help. What he saw didn't inspire him to any feelings of respect, or hope for that matter, as this personage was, for better or worse, the only political figure to have _deigned_ to grace them with their presence. The others – _those happy few_, he reflected dourly – had been, at best, distant, and outright hostile at worst _if_, and that was the operative word, they would even respond to the constant, urgent requests the Enterprise had made for communication. The three hour deadline was long since gone, and the Captain was horribly alarmed for his away team, for he had heard nothing! And to him, despite what headquarters had said, they were anything but disposable; he would _never_ willingly allow any of his crew to be cannon fodder in a pointless skirmish. Particularly if that order had come from Section 31, an organisation he personally held in complete revulsion.

And _this_ person was openly prejudiced, contemptuous, dismissive and obtuse to the point of idiocy, an attitude the Captain found increasingly difficult to handle. Nevertheless, he quelled any sharp retorts that were rising unbidden to his lips, and faced the 'diplomat' squarely, attempting to soothe his jagged nerves with his own inimitable brand of levelheadedness. An emotional display from him would only result in the Jesavaen concluding the stereotypes he had of humans, the Federation and other species, were correct, and if that came to pass then Picard might just as well pack up and call it a very long, trying, day.

So... for what felt like the millionth time, Picard inclined his head graciously, as if accepting some beneficent offering, towards the male's direction. "Pozheg, any information you may have concerning the whereabouts of Special Envoy Silek would be _most_ gratefully received, as would details of the group that took him."

The Jesavaen flicked his long ears, settling them back against his skull, and considered the human. He eventually curled back his upper lip and announced, in contemptuous tones, "The Favoured are… _excrement_… insignificant."

The frustration and dislike Picard had kicked behind a wall of rationality began to seep out, and he heard a slight tremor in his voice when he replied. "_Not so_ insignificant, Pozheg Niasb", he reminded the man on the screen, giving him his full title. "They have caused many difficulties given that the envoy _is_ the only mediator a number of factions will listen to." He added for good measure, hoping the appeal would assist debate, "Thus effectively causing greater disruption and a halt to a treaty that could have saved the lives of thousands of your people."

"They are willing sacrifices in the name of All," stated Niasb glibly, appalling the entire bridge crew so they fixed on him with horrified attention. He continued almost without pause, oblivious to the raging emotions of the others across the deep void, "The settlement between the castes was never truly going to be a policy that _I_ foresaw coming to fruition."

Rendered speechless for a moment, Picard recollected his train of thought, and ignored the radiated hostility coming from the staff on the bridge; he made another attempt to reach the Jesavaen. "Pozheg, the Federation would be… _are_ ready to consider –" he shifted uncomfortably, aware that Data was listening intently, his face still – "allowing you full rights to the land at present occupied by the Embassy, as well as all non-personal belongings. The _only_ exception being technology that we consider could be pollutant."

Pozheg Niasb slitted his eyes, making his, to all intents and purposes, features unreadable, and Picard, examining that face over a distance of several thousand kilometres, wished he could read the kinesics better and for his Betazoid Counselor. He studied the state of affairs; if there had ever been a time that was better for her auspices, then this, was surely it. Maintaining nonchalance as he waited for a response was becoming another game, one he disliked playing into.

"All land rights?" the bureaucrat queried suspiciously, eventually. Picard gave a mute nod of agreement. "Personal belongings?" Pozheg Niasb laughed, an unpleasant sound that grated on nerves and mocked the human, causing a flicker of emotion to pass over the Captain's face as he attempted to hold onto that gaze as coolly as possible. "Hmm… In _that_ case, Captain, we should perhaps consider drawing up a settlement together. I feel certain our scholars will be able to reach a… _satisfactory_ understanding." He leaned into the viewer, his nostrils deliberately closed in a calculated insult, then held up a blunt, four-fingered hand in a gesture of derision, and went on, "But _only_ when we have the data file in our hands." Pozheg leaned back, apparently satisfied. "You understand my reasoning, Picard, don't you? I await your further communication."

The screen blinked, wavered as the communication was severed from the planet, and returned to the visual of Jesava and her two small satellites, along with the sight of one of the larger passenger ships heading towards colonies that had been established one hundred and fifty years ago. As Picard watched, absorbing this unsavoury meal, he saw two small warships head out of the atmosphere and set themselves into orbit. He scowled, rising to his feet and walked towards the viewer, tugging his uniform into place, to look more closely at this development.

"_Merde_", he said, unsettled, deeply worried, and wary. He cast his mind back over the conversation and allowed a sigh of irritation to escape, certain he had missed some inexplicable and really subtle detail in the exchange he had just had. The damnable man was so unbearably arrogant, and had so much audacity it had probably clouded his impartiality… He shook his head, lost in his own thoughts, feeling fury coursing through him.

"Sir?"

The quiet question intruded unexpectedly, but he found it a welcome relief from the uproar of his own mind. Picard turned his attention to the android. "Yes, Commander?"

"Captain, you have told the Pozheg we have jurisdiction to hand over all property and the land belonging to the Federation…?" The question hung there as he trailed off.

"Indeed, Commander."

"I was unaware that –"

The Captain waved him to silence. "You have not yet been informed of this because the orders I received were most explicit. You will find that others have not been briefed regarding this either."

Data tipped his head slightly to one side, managing to convey a slight frown, his golden eyes curious. "I see, sir."

His voice softening a fraction, Picard added, "If you would be so good as to consult with our legal department to draw up the necessary documents, I would appreciate it, Commander. Also – " he drew in a sharp breath, before heading to the ready room – "once finalised into a recognisable format, please bring them to me immediately. I must tell you, Data, that this is of the _utmost_ urgency."

"Aye, sir." Data rose smoothly from his seat and proceeded to the turbolift. This would take a little time.

* * *

Yag'ylEnk was small by the standards set by Eroc, and had a history as a rural supplier of foodstuffs to the larger cities along the coast that had plied their trade across the Pazunov ocean towards the second continent, Mangyt. Even now, the city had established routes and traded with Eroc, holding a position of importance, and it was one reason why the federation Embassy had been built there rather than the capitol. The convoluted politics of Jesava had denied any aliens enough importance to be situated in Eroc as that would have been seen as heretical, for Eroc was also a place of holy pilgrimage.

The fields surrounding this city had long been filled with the ripening lelt that was the staple food for the planet, a tall, grass-like plant that flowered blue and orange in the summer, ripening into fragrant golden berries that were made into a kind of high-protein flour. The entire plant was edible, and it also found its way into the clothing of the planet's population, much like the flax and papyrus of Terra, as well as having been used once to make paper. Something less common now with the advent of Jesava's technological revolution. It also meant that lelt was part of a rich and vibrant folklore.

In happier times, those same lelt fields would be worked by the Fakla caste, even in this modern age of warp powered ships and aliens, albeit with tools that were somewhat more sophisticated than the wooden diggers and ploughs their ancestors had had to use. Other fields were used for similar purposes and, although the crops they produced were of slightly less importance, they gave the herbivorous peoples of Jesava a wider dietary complement, as well as a startling number of remarkable spices that had the potential to become one of the planet's contributions to interplanetary interests of a purely commercial nature. Jesava had _more_ to offer a wider audience than a mineral, something that few natives realised was of value yet.

Of the two remaining continents, one was still mostly covered in great forests that were filled with the planet's diverse, rich, fauna, and one was home to a great wasteland, an eyewitness to a holy war that had been fought with nuclear weapons, and was still so highly irradiated in places, even after two hundred and twenty years, that few ventured there. There were legends, of course, of the great beasts that dwelt in the mirrored desert, that sought out and devoured the unwary, but these were seen as stories to frighten infants, or imbeciles, or as part of the tale-tellers gifts when they passed the many townships entertaining the farmers before they went on their way again.

But now, Yag'ylEnk was no haven for either native or alien and many of her people were leaving home and hearth, to face destitution and the hard winter on the roads leading away from the city. As the population moved out and away into the countryside, ragged camps sprang up set slightly away from the roads, fires burned as people fought off the chill and damp, as well as the ever present spectre of disease. The camps whispered with layers of sound, coughs, sighs, talk, occasional shouts, the soft echo of tears falling; sorrow lay like a blanket over them, and a hopelessness borne of desperation.

Frye slipped into one of the makeshift tents, and joined Xeer and T'Mila, finally allowing her hood to slip back to reveal strained bronze eyes, and a pinched mouth. She had lost some weight over the last week, and her once solid frame looked too rangy for her height. She headed straight for her daughter, acknowledging Xeer with a twisted smile, and the child sat up eagerly, pleased to see her mother, a small upturning of her lips telling Frye that all was well in spite of her absence from the tent. Vanessa sat at her side, on the makeshift seats, and gave her the cup full of warmed milk. Despite this welcome addition to T'Mila's diet, Vanessa knew it was not enough, for_ any _of them, as their biology would not allow them to assimilate the nutrients efficiently. It was fast becoming an imperative that they found communication equipment that would function so contact could be made with the Federation before they starved to death, and not simply through lack of food, though there was little enough of that to go round.

"I dislike milk, mother," T'Mila complained, just letting her know that this was a substance she would sooner not have to drink, but took the cup anyway.

Vanessa raised a brow, and suitably chastised, T'Mila drank the milk with no more than a faint grimace. "Back into bed," she commanded gently, and the child wrapped herself into her coverings again. "Sleep, daughter."

"I'm not tired, mother, but I am quite hungry," T'Mila said, muffled, from under the covers. She poked her head out like a tortoise, and blinked in the dim light until her eyes got used to the smokiness again; she coughed, a thick, phlegmy sound, and added, "My chest hurts too, momma."

Vanessa stroked the child's brow, knowing that this verbal slip was a symptom of T'Mila's now increasing awareness of the changes in their circumstances. She was a privileged child, product of two privileged societies that had no experience of hardship, and as a daughter of two strong, deeply loving individuals, had nothing in her short life upon which to base what was fast becoming her only reality. The sights she had had to see would surely have an effect on her; they were things no child should be subjected to.

"I know, _ashal-veh_," she replied, her hands gently soothing, cooling. "I will find something to help you feel better soon." She hoped she would.

T'Mila's eyes slowly shut in response to her mother's calming presence, lids fluttering until they rested finally and she breathed softly, occasional coughs racking her small body. Frye stayed close to her daughter until she was certain she slept, then went over to the fire burning fitfully in the centre of their small tent. She could hear her neighbours coughing too, and the wail of a very small infant reached her ears, as the makeshift shelter was squashed between several others. She shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind of everything but what was necessary, and stirred the embers to greater brilliance, placing on it some fuel she had managed to scrounge.

Xeer was busily looking at the device Silek had left Vanessa, attempting to boost its signal, but having very little luck – something Vanessa decided they needed, even if Vulcans didn't believe in it. She attempted some humour.

"No luck, Xeer?"

The Vulcan woman looked up from her task, and lifted an elfin brow, appraising the human, then allowed a small quirk of her mouth to show. "It would seem not, my friend."

Vanessa chuckled, and went and sat beside Xeer. "Let me see."

She took the device from the other woman's hand, and poked at it too, but finally had to admit there was no point in her continuing with this particularly thankless task. Carefully placing it at the bottom one of the bags they had, making certain it was safe, Frye turned her attention back to Xeer.

"As you can see, there remains too much disturbance in the atmosphere," Xeer said. "This instrument is not powerful enough and I am unable to modify it any further in order to boost its gain."

Frye sighed. "No need to question what we've got to do then, eh?" She glanced sideways at Xeer. "Find something that we can cannibalise so we can make this thing shout, literally, to the heavens."

"Indeed, but we must make a decision where we should go." A small crease appeared between the woman's brows. "And there is the possibility that we will not be so well protected if we leave the vicinity of these camps. It is, after all, the Fakla that have been instrumental in our survival thus far."

"I know; we owe them our lives."

"Without doubt," was the response, and Xeer thought back to a few days earlier, when capture seemed imminent except a _miracle_ had happened – an event for which she had no explanation and could only use the English term for. Rescue by natives, and shelter too... Her mind still found no logic available to explain what had happened; it faltered in the face of this particular truth, but then she was finding logic to be a tool that was a little unwieldy – at times - given their current state of affairs.

"Do you believe we would be best served by an attempt to get to Eroc?" she asked the human.

Frye ran a hand through short, matted auburn hair, finally resting her forehead on that hand as she brought her knees up to lean on them. Thinking, she stared into the fire for a moment or two. "Fucked if I know, Xeer," she muttered. "But we can't stay here, that's for certain, because even though we owe the Fakla so much, we also place them in danger _just_ by being here."

"Then we would be best served by bringing our situation to the attention of the Pozheg Velsk'en; she may be able to assist us?"

"Probably," admitted Frye, rubbing her forehead and smearing a large smudge of dirt across it. "I just don't want her to place any of her people in danger."

Xeer nodded. "No more do I, Vanessa, but for reasons I am unable to ascertain at present, the Fakla _have_ decided to assist us, so it seems reasonable that we must ask them again."

The human laughed then, a tiny rasp of sound; she eyed her friend with deep amusement. "Logic," she said.

"It has been known to offer solutions…"

"True, Xeer, true." Frye stretched her back out from its cramped position, and yawned, suddenly weary. "I yield in the face of it, this time. So it's decided, in the morning we will approach the Pozheg for further help?"

"I believe that is our best course of action."

"Okay, honey, we'll go. But right now, I need to get some shut eye; I'm dead on my feet."

Vanessa got to her feet and lay down beside her child, pulling her into her arms, arranging the blankets so they were both covered; T'Mila mumbled and stirred fretfully at first but settled again quickly. Frye was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the floor, and soon the soft noises of their joint breathing filled the tent as the rest of the camp settled to sleep.

Alone among many, Xeer moved to the fire and banked it up against the freeze that would fall as the night became deeper. She wrapped herself against the cold, pulling the long cloak on, muffling her head until all that showed was her eyes, and after a final glance at the two sleepers, she left the tent to stand and gaze at foreign stars. They glittered like jewels, their fire enhanced by a halo, each of them a tiny shard of ice; one moon crested the distant forest, lighting it with an argent glow. She sought Sol, where her children and husband were, and 40 Eridani, remembering how T'Khut would look over her family's lands on a fine summer's night, when the wind sighed like a lover against the shutters of their home, bringing sand from the desert and the scent of desert blooms.

She did not believe in miracles, or luck, but she _could_ wish for them, so she did.

* * *

There were shadows in her mind that could not be fought, great dark things that refused to flee when she addressed them, but Troi made a valiant attempt to block the worst of them. Her shields were weak, almost nonexistent, but she would strengthen them brick by brick, until they were impenetrable. It would be a lengthy process, one she was uncertain she was up to, but she would persevere, because she would not allow her captors to know of her fear. She trembled, assaulted again by the miasma of loathing directed at her, and the smell… oh, the stench.. the stench that had made her vomit until her stomach had protested, when all that was left in it was a foul tasting fluid that burned her nose and mouth.

Opening her eyes, she scanned the room she was in. There was a bed, a chair, and a bucket for her convenience. The door was bolted; she had tried it almost as soon as she regained consciousness, but there wasn't even a handle on her side of it, and it only opened to admit two of her captors when they brought water or some food. Deanna was brave, but neither was she stupid, and an attempt to tackle two in her present condition would have definitely been the latter. Right now, she had to concentrate on her injuries, and making certain her mental state was such that she would be able to cope with whatever was to come.


	5. Chapter 5

"Who are you?" Riker asked Liald insistently as he came into the shelter, his eyes slitted against the light now filtering through, as morning had broken after an interminable night. "What caste do you belong to?"

The Jesavaen male tossed back his hood, and threw down the bundles he was carrying, then placed some of the flat, unleavened bread his people ate with all meals beside the fire on a cloth. It would go with the vegetable stew, currently bubbling in the pot hanging over the fire, quite well and, at least it filled their bellies if it did nothing else. But Liald ignored the questions, and stooped over the fire pit, stirring the pot's contents, as if they had never been aired.

Worf made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl, then he rose and went to gaze out of the shelter. He had heard the Commander ask the same questions too many times over the last few hours, and his patience was nearly at an end. Most of all, he wanted to return to the Enterprise, then come back to Jesava fully equipped and with as many men as he needed so they could find Deanna. The Klingon was prepared to tear Eroc apart stone by stone if necessary, and he would kill as many Jesavaens as it took to ensure her safety, and that of his shipmates. He coughed and spat, clearing his sinuses, as the fog of rage diminished. "He will not talk."

Liald looked up from his task, and gazed at the big male, a fierce and equally angry look etched on his face. "What difference is it to you?" he said at last, the words clipped. "Is it not enough that I took you to this place and that I have saved your lives? Surely –" he reached to take some fuel and placed it on the fire with care – "who or what I am does not matter?"

"How can we trust you," Riker asked, spitting the words out, too close to an outburst himself, "when we know _nothing_ about you? You say you are one of 'the lost' and you have your own reasons for helping, what does that mean?"

"We answer questions with more questions," Worf muttered impatiently. "This will get us nowhere, Commander. I say we leave, _now_, and find our own way back to the shuttle." He was still seething over the loss of his team, and moving Lomas, who had died during the night, had been a task he resented bitterly.

"There is no shuttle," Liald said quietly, dropping a bomb into the middle of an already edgy situation.

Riker was stunned into silence, as was the Security Chief and they went mute, staring at the alien, thoughts rampaging through their heads.

"No shuttle?" rasped Mayso, who was sitting by the fire, and had dragged himself, painfully, closer to listen to the conversation.

Liald nodded, but chopped off further discussion with a fluid hand movement, then wrapped cloth around both hands before taking the pot and pouring the contents cautiously into four containers. He gestured to the steaming fluid. "Eat. Then I will tell you what I have seen."

"Why not now?" the First officer demanded, but the Jesavaen dismissed him completely, by choosing to sit opposite him and begin his own meal pointedly.

Frustrated, but biting his tongue, Riker came forward and snagged one of the flatbreads to go with the stew, then settled to the floor also, chewing on the food, having decided that, even though he needed the information, it would be useless to try and get Liald to talk when it was obvious he had other things on his mind. He was surprised to find he was hungry too and that it didn't taste that bad but, from the expression currently wandering over Worf's face he could see his opinion was purely species based. Mayso was eating half-heartedly, breaking bits of bread and dunking it to soften it, chewing slowly. Riker took a long swig, and swallowed, the taste a pleasant burning in spite of unfamiliarity.

For a while, silence reigned, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire, and the drip of water from the broken pipe jutting from a wall. No one wanted to speak first, but in the end it was the Jesavaen who uttered something to end the uneasy quiet.

"It has been destroyed, your shuttle."

"You saw this for certain?" Worf asked, picking lumps of fuel from the ground and tossing them into the fire with an uncanny accuracy. These bald facts dismayed him more than he liked, and he stared hard into the flames.

"I did."

"By whom, and how?" Mayso asked before his superiors could.

"The Mec'hyM'Poyr." Liald swallowed some of his stew, and ground the chunks of vegetable noisily. "They used a bomb; I saw them set the charges."

"You were watching us," concluded Worf from this piece of information; he scowled at the alien, for here was yet another reason for distrust.

Riker played with a small piece of rubble sitting between his feet, rolling it backwards and forwards between his fingers before he lifted his head and asked, yet again, "Who the fuck are you, Liald, and what do you want from us?"

"You humans must always have answers to questions?"

"_Qu'vatlh!_" Worf swore, dashing his food to the floor, the patience he had so carefully stored at an end now and he took a menacing step towards the Jesavaen, murder in every line of his body, his fists clenched. He halted, because a weapon had miraculously appeared in the male's hand, and the business end was pointed at him. Teeth bared, Worf ground out, "This game has gone on long enough, _petaQ_, speak no more riddles. You either wish to help us, or you do not and I, for one, will gladly kill you if you stand in our way."

"Make no mistake," Riker added, his eyes cold with as much rage as the Klingon's, "if Worf rushes you now, and he could, even _if_ you kill him, there will still be me or Mayso. I promise you that."

Liald looked at all three of the Federation officers; their faces were set in steely determination, so he carefully placed the weapon back into his waist sash, and held his empty hands out in front of him, never once taking his eyes off them. He sighed then, knowing there was no way out but to tell these aliens some of his history, a task he baulked at, squirmed over.

"As you wish." He bowed his head, and lifted it again speaking hurriedly, as if he was shamed. "I am of the lost… I am once a healer-priest, but no more - " He rose to his feet agitated, wrung his hands together, dropping his eyes from them and paced, anguish pouring from him. He looked up blindly, spittle collecting at the corner of his lips, vehement. "How can I tell of my shame to you who will never understand, never grasp the enormity of what we do?"

Riker snarled almost. "What do we care for your grief, when there are friends we have lost -"

"And do _my_ friends, my _family_, matter _less_ than yours then, offworlders…_v'dretzyn_?" Froth sprayed as the words were ground out, cutting through the officer's words like a dagger, full of loathing for him, as Liald slitted his nostrils completely. "If that is so, then kill me and be done, for I will service you no more and the doctrine _I _once taught will _never_ be challenged." He stood still again, staring at them haughtily, fully Jesavaen now, all humility swept away, before taking a deep breath and shrinking in on himself. Liald lowered his head again, regaining some measure of composure. "It is _enough_ that you should know we all suffer here through ignorance and fear, and what I once was, I am no longer. I help you because I want my world free of you, and all your kind." He swept his hand down, a dismissive, final gesture.

Riker's face was still as he absorbed this. "First contact was a big mistake for your people, wasn't it?"

"I curse the day we achieved warp." Liald spat on the hard, cold floor.

"As do we," Worf growled, and Riker sent him a glacial look that stilled any further comment.

The First Officer was tired, he was sore, and he wanted to find Deanna; the mission to rescue the Envoy was losing importance with every minute that passed. It was starting to feel desperate, and he agreed with Worf that there was now too much talk and not enough action. Riker rubbed his eyes wearily, and sucked in a breath.

"So what now?" he asked resignedly, coming to a decision that all they had was this alien's somewhat loose goodwill and allegiance.

Liald nodded gloomy satisfaction at the inevitable choice the human had made. "We must make our way towards Yag'ylEnk, to the town of Kad-Erza, some thirty leagues from here. It is there we will be able to find more help and a way to reach your ship."

"Mayso isn't in good shape and neither are we, come to that," Riker said, thinking that a journey of this nature would be difficult at best, and probably downright impossible. "How do you plan on getting us past what's going on out there." He gestured bluntly with his chin.

Liald pointed at the previously ignored bundles still on the floor where he had thrown them. "Those will help, but it is up to you to make yourselves – " he paused as he weighed his next words, fingering the weapon at his side – "_less_ visible. There are some disparities that cannot be hidden so well." He shrugged eloquently. "As to your injuries…"

"Then we must do what we can," concluded Riker grimly, all bridges burned, and reached for the clothing.

**oooooooooooooOOoooooooooooooo**

The ready room was at times a place of haven for Picard when he'd had more than his fair share of difficult situations to deal with, and he had spent many hours engaged reading, content to see the multi-coloured stars streaking past the porthole. This day was different.

"Section 31 are clear about the necessity of finding the Special Envoy, Picard, and while it is understandable you find the sacrifice of some of your crew distasteful, it may be unavoidable. There's been confirmation of Cardassian involvement within two governments of the systems engaged in negotiations with Jesava over mining rights." The image of the Admiral on the small screen leaned forward. "This is, obviously, a critical situation, and I cannot emphasise enough that your role is primarily that of peacekeeper until the Vulcan ship, Equus, arrives and, thus, very important. Two further starships are en route to your position to support you now it is evident the Jesavaens are intent on taking hostilities into their local space."

The Captain's mouth was thin, and his eyes granite as he listened to this speech. "I see, Admiral Baxter. However, I would remind you that I have some _small_ experience of Cardassians myself, and their… covert methods of operation." He steepled his fingers before continuing, "The Jesavaen vessels are, of course, no match for any ships they could encounter, so it may be possible to disable them without loss of life should it become necessary."

"Good," said Baxter, bluntly. "It would be unfortunate if we happened to kill some of the natives, as we intend to salvage as much as possible from the situation."

"Indeed," said Picard frigidly, thinking of his away team and how they seemed to have disappeared into thin air, as well as their apparent unimportance. "A small passenger ship docked with us approximately six hours ago, Admiral, with some of the staff from the Embassy. The whereabouts of some twenty others are uncertain and it must be assumed they are dead." He tapped his mouth with a finger thoughtfully, his tone changing fractionally. "They were assisted in getting away from the planet by some rebels who call themselves 'the lost'. Does your intelligence tell us anything about this group?"

Baxter, across light years, frowned, and he shook his head slowly as he mulled this news over. "I have never heard of them, Captain. It may be something Jesavaens are unwilling to talk about to outsiders."

_As opposed to everything else they don't talk about_, thought the Captain with a certain amount of grim amusement.

Baxter continued without missing a beat, not even noticing the other man's silent evaluation. "Picard, it is crucial you find Silek as he has information regarding the Cardassian involvement that could be pivotal to any settlement. I therefore give you authority to take a fully armed team to the surface so we can locate him."

Picard's eyes narrowed speculatively. "I was under the impression we were not welcome on the surface?"

There was a nod of agreement from the Admiral. "That would be true, Captain, but you are currently in consultation about the Embassy land, are you not?" Receiving a mute affirmative from Picard, he continued, "I believe you will find the Pozheg amenable."

"And the legislative documents we are drawing up to return the Embassy lands to Jesavaen ownership are important how, sir?" Picard asked, because he wanted to hear the reasoning out loud, so he could measure it fully.

"They… ah… sweeten the deal, as it were, and allow us to make planet fall with as little resistance as possible."

Picard sat back heavily, staring at the screen in front of him. He had been used – worse, his crew had been used to further political ends, when he had been acting in good faith. "So, we are also involved in subterfuge?"

"To a point," agreed Baxter casually, completely missing the dangerous tone that had crept into Picard's voice. "It has been expedient."

"So it would seem, Admiral," said the Captain, his voice a few degrees south of absolute zero.

"Notify me as soon as you get any word on developments, Picard. Baxter out."

The display resolved into the familiar blue with its laurel wreath centred accusingly, and Picard found he was once more in silence save for the throb of the great engines powering the Enterprise. He continued to look at the monitor for a few moments, before getting to his feet and heading towards the bridge. Once there, he paused very briefly to address Data.

"Commander, I will be in sickbay if you require me. Oh, and if those legal documents are ready, I want them in my ready room."

The android inclined his head for a moment. "Aye, sir."

**oooooooooooooOOoooooooooooooo**

Beverley Crusher completed running the scan over the last of the embassy staff, and gestured for them to remain prone while she checked the readings carefully. She huffed out a short breath, appraising what she saw, then turned a warm smile on her current patient.

"You check out fine, T'Ille, so you'll be pleased to know you're no longer required in sickbay." She placed a reassuring hand on the woman's shoulder.

"I am relieved," T'Ille murmured softly, sitting up to swing her legs off the biobed, then gingerly lowering herself to the floor. "I must speak with your Captain, Doctor, as soon as possible."

Crusher's brows drew together in a miniscule frown. "Hmm, I'd rather you took some rest. That was a very serious fracture you had, and while Vulcans heal faster than humans, it's a pretty good idea for you to be off your feet for a couple of days."

The Vulcan woman gazed coolly at Crusher, only her dark grey eyes betraying her inner turmoil. "I must," she insisted, but made a small concession to the medic. "However, I will endeavour to rest after I have spoken with him. Does that cover your requirements, Doctor?"

The Doctor's mouth grew a little wry, and she quirked a red brow at the other woman. "It will suffice." She added quickly before T'Ille could move off, "I will be checking on you, as your pregnancy needs monitoring."

"In that we both concur," T'Ille said, and gave a small bow of the head to Crusher.

The doors opened to sickbay unexpectedly and both women, caught unawares, looked up as one, just as Picard came through them. He scanned the room quickly and, seeing the Doctor, headed straight over to her.

"Beverley," he greeted her, and turned to address the other woman. "T'Ille, may I speak with you?"

"Captain," responded T'Ille, "I have already made my wishes clear to Dr. Crusher that it is of the utmost urgency that I speak to you."

Picard acknowledged this briefly, then turned to Crusher. "May I use your office?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Be my guest, Jean-Luc. Just don't keep my patient standing or you will answer to me." As soon as she'd uttered this dire threat, she walked away to check on one of her other patients.

Picard gestured politely to the Vulcan to make her way to the office, and he followed after her, pulling up a chair so that she might be seated. When T'Ille had sat down, he moved behind the desk and sat himself, leaning forward slightly. The woman opposite was quiet, reflective, and looked pale, her skin an unhealthy chartreuse, an olive flush wandering over strong cheekbones, her black brows furrowed.

"What is it you wish to speak to me about, T'Ille?"

The soft voice almost startled T'Ille, so lost was she, and she drew herself straighter in the chair, placing a hand on her belly in the age-old gesture of a mother protecting her as yet unborn child. It was a motion the Captain didn't miss, and for an instant his eyes betrayed his sympathy before they hardened to granite.

"Captain," she said, "I was able to save this chip from the Envoy's office. It contains all the information he has on the current situation as well as facts pertaining to known political insurgents operating within the Eroc province." She passed over to him a translucent yellow chip, which he accepted, turning it over in his fingers while he waited for her to continue. "I also became aware of a group working outside of the known parties, Captain. There was very little available as they seem to have a status in Jesavaen society not unlike that of the untouchables from Earth's history. The informants I spoke with were highly reluctant to divulge anything and all I found out was their name… 'the lost'."

Picard's eyes narrowed speculatively, and he gave a grave nod. "That is somewhat more than I knew before."

"They were also instrumental in our escape from Jesava."

"And yet, T'Ille, they still managed to keep their identities secret from you?"

She nodded, a single, sharp acknowledgement. "The Envoy's wife and child are still on the surface, Captain, and their whereabouts is unknown. I believe that she escaped detection and is in hiding."

"Not dead?"

"Unlikely, Captain. Vanessa Frye is remarkable resilient, and very proficient. I have always found her to be resourceful, and she will prevail. She may also have the Envoy's cousin, Xeer, with her."

"I see. Do you have any further observations regarding 'the lost'?"

T'Ille thought over what she had learned very carefully, there was not a great deal, and she searched her memory looking for a another clue to give this quiet, human male who she was rapidly building respect for. A single name came to her, one she had overheard unexpectedly from the two Jesavaen males as they had bundled her and her colleagues onto the passenger carrier. "The Fakla, Captain. A caste of farmers who seem to be implicated with this group."

"My thanks, again, T'Ille," the Captain said softly.

She rose from the seat and made a move to the door, then turned briefly back towards him. "It is my opinion, and unsubstantiated, that 'the lost' are endeavouring to remove all aliens from their soil. National paranoia is extreme and is becoming more so, Captain." She shuddered, almost imperceptible to one who did not know Vulcans, but Picard knew them intimately so he saw the repressed horror. "I – " she paused again on the threshold, looking for a word, and spoke one that didn't come easily – "_hope_ you will be successful in your endeavours."

**oooooooooooooOOoooooooooooooo**

The sound of the door opening brought Deanna to full wakefulness, and she was alert to the sound of footsteps as they crossed the room to reach where she lay. She lay still, keeping her breathing shallow and her eyes shut, a pretence at sleep, in a vain effort to keep her imprisoners at bay. A foot nudged her in the ribs, hard.

"You are awake. You will come with me."

A hard hand grasped her upper arm, pulling her body upwards with a jolt, yanking her neck, already protesting from whiplash. She resisted, playing dead, hoping they would leave her alone, but to no avail.

There was a snarl, and toes connected again with her ribcage, jolting the breath from her body, causing an involuntary cry of pain to flutter past her lips, and she sobbed as the next breath she took burned like fire. She opened her eyes, tried to twist her arm from the cruel grasp, failed, and gained a slap across the face that sent her senses reeling. Blood trickled slowly from her nose.

"I'll come," she said weakly. "Please… stop."

"Get up."

The hand left her arm, and she slumped like a ragdoll, boneless, and pulled her legs under her body, using the wall to support her as she rose unsteadily. Proud, defiant, she lifted her head and stood straight, refusing to let this male see her weakness; her hands shook, so she held them together, sniffed back the blood and tossed her ragged hair back. Eyes blazing, she faced her captor, and walked, slowly, carefully, towards the open door.

Whatever they did, she would not give in, she would be strong.


End file.
